Fade To Black

12

Though he wanted to, Dean wasn’t able to get back to Hope Valley until early Tuesday evening.

Amber Torrington’s brutal murder had debuted at Satan’s Playground Monday morning. And her body-in two pieces-had been discovered later that afternoon.

The team had known someone was going to die. They knew why. They’d had a rough idea who. A broad picture of where. And they’d regrettably known how.

Yet they hadn’t been able to do a damn thing to stop it from happening.

He had no business leaving D.C. Having spent most of yesterday and today in the woods of southern Pennsylvania, where the body had been found, he’d returned to the office to see whether Lily or Brandon was getting anywhere with the security tape. That they hadn’t had any luck provided him with a good reason to head back to Hope Valley. If they were truly working under the assumption that the man was at least familiar with the area, they needed somebody who might recognize him to watch the tape.

Stacey.

It was the only video he was going to ask her to watch. Because what that sick fuck had done to Amber Torrington had made him puke for the first time since he’d been on this case.

Beheading, it seemed, was not as easy as it appeared on video games and movies. The fiend had had to work at it. Hard.

Arriving on the outskirts of town, he headed for the sheriff’s office. Considering he hadn’t spoken to Stacey at all since he’d left her place Saturday night, he wasn’t sure what kind of reception he’d get. Not that he hadn’t wanted to; he’d just been run ragged. He’d conducted interviews, overseen evidence collection from both scenes, talked to nearly every employee in the mall. Somewhere in there, he could have made a cell phone call to Stacey, but there was too much to say in a phone conversation.

She’s a cop. She’ll understand.

She was not like his ex, who’d wanted hourly reports on when he’d be home for dinner and had occasionally dumped said dinner onto his chair when he didn’t make it. As if Dean should have been able to dictate when evidence could be discovered or violent criminals could be arrested.

When he reached the office, though, he learned Stacey wasn’t there.

“Sorry, Agent Taggert,” said the same older, big-haired receptionist. “She’s out at the range doing some target shooting. Lots of them have been going out there the past couple of days.”

Oh, great. If Stacey was brushing up on her marksmanship, that obviously meant she thought she might have to use a weapon sometime soon. Something he knew would not make her happy.

“Thanks,” he said after getting directions.

After a quick drive, he arrived at the range. That was probably an exaggerated name for the actual facility, not much more than an old farm with a dirt berm bullet stop and some shot-out weathered plywood to hang targets on. The parking lot was choked with weeds, and potholed down to bare dirt in places, showing a general lack of use that confirmed what he’d figured: Stacey and her deputies didn’t use this place very often. Until now, when he and his team had brought news of Lisa Zimmerman’s murder to their quiet world.

He spotted her at once. Parking and cutting the engine, he sat in the driver’s seat and watched. He leaned forward, dropping his crossed arms on the steering wheel, a slow smile widening his mouth.

Because, damn, she was hot.

Wearing hearing protection, she hadn’t noticed his arrival. She stood alone, a few yards from his car, clothed in jeans and a bright pink tank top.

He’d seen her in her uniform. He’d seen her in her underwear. He’d seen her naked. He’d just never seen her dressed down. And the woman did some amazing things for a pair of jeans and a clingy top.

Her legs were slightly spread, arms extended straight out, shoulder height. The left hand cupped her other wrist, beneath the gun, for support, and the right flowed seamlessly into her Glock as if it were an extension of her own limb. As he exited the car, she grouped seventeen rounds through the center of a paper suspect’s chest. From twenty-five yards. In under twenty seconds.

Repeat: hot.

Knowing better than to sneak up behind an armed person who wouldn’t hear his approach, he leaned against the hood of his car, his arms crossed, watching. She was empty and had to change clips, which was when she caught sight of him. Her eyes widened in surprise, and a quick, spontaneous smile broadened her mouth.

Despite the past couple of days, and his own bone-deep weariness, he somehow found a smile of his own and returned it.

“Hi,” she said as she walked over, holstering the nine-millimeter. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I hope the target practice wasn’t on my account,” he said with an apologetic shrug. “I’m sorry I haven’t called.”

“Don’t worry. I don’t shoot guys who don’t call back. Leave the toilet seat up, however, and all bets are off.”

“Noted.”

The smile flashed again, brilliant and honest and so good after all the darkness that he wanted to just lose himself in it. In her.

Yes, they had a lot to talk about regarding the case. He wanted to know if she was okay, if she’d gotten over the nightmare someone had left on her porch. But what he most wanted was to get her alone and make love to her the way he’d planned to Saturday night.

The urge to tug her against him and kiss her overwhelmed him, but he resisted. They were out in public, in a spot where her deputies came for target practice and could pull up at any time. No way would he put her in the position of being disrespected by one of her subordinates.

When he got her alone in private again, though… well, as she’d said, all bets were off.

“You okay?” she asked. “I saw on the news that the body had been found.”

So much for a tender reunion. She was already back into the case. Exactly as he’d expect her to be. “Yeah. It was a rough scene.”

“In Pennsylvania?”

“Right over the state line. Talk about jurisdictional nightmares. But you might be able to help.”

She nodded immediately.

“We’ve got surveillance tape from the mall where the victim was snatched. There’s a good chance the unsub was stalking her, memorizing her movements and her schedule.”

“You want me to watch the tapes? See if there’s anyone who might have had a connection with Lisa on there?”

“I know it’s a lot to ask. We’re talking hours and hours.”

“Of course. I’ll start right away.”

He nodded in appreciation, though he’d had no doubt she would do it. Seeing her wipe a sheen of sweat off her brow, he said, “The car’s still cool. Want to sit?”

She was one step ahead of him, already opening the door and sliding into the passenger seat. Before Dean had even started the engine, she reached for the air-conditioner controls, adjusting a vent to blow cold air directly on her face. She sighed in pleasure as the AC blew tendrils of her hair loose.

Since they were inside the closed car, he risked personal contact, knowing he had to touch her or lose his mind. He reached over, brushing his fingertips over the sensitive spot where her shoulder met her neck.

She turned into his hand, rubbing her cheek against his palm. That was all. The touch was simple, nonsex ual, yet loaded with personal connection. It pleasured him the way even an embrace with any other woman wouldn’t have.

Which said a lot about how much she’d been on his mind in the past few days. How much they’d been on his mind, as crazy and impossible as it was.

“Are you going to be in town for a while?”

He shook his head. “I have to be back in the office tomorrow morning. And tomorrow evening I get to spend time with my son.”

She nodded.

“But D.C.’s not that far a drive,” he said with a slight smile. “I could see myself commuting in the morning.”

“Mm,” she murmured, lightly kissing his palm, “and I am noble enough to save you from the bedbugs at the inn, if you’d like to stay at my place.”

“Thought they didn’t have them. Immaculately clean, you said.”

“Maybe I exaggerated. My bed’s nicer, isn’t it?”

“Infinitely.”

Staring into his eyes, she admitted, “I’ve been hoping you’d come back.”

“I’m back.” His voice was husky, the touch of his hand on her lips sizzling and electrifying. He wanted her again. Badly. “I don’t know which I find more arousing, you kissing my hand, or shooting out that target in under twenty seconds.”

Stacey laughed softly, sounding so sweet and feminine, such a fascinating mix of strength and softness. Wondering about that strength, and how she’d held up after he’d had to walk out on her the other night, he asked, “Are you okay? After what happened Saturday?”

She nodded, obviously realizing he was asking about the horror on her doorstep. “I don’t know who did it, but I’m working on it. I helped my dad bury her on Sunday.”

“Stacey, I don’t want to worry you, but we have to at least consider the possibility that the guy we’re looking for is afraid you’re getting a little too close, and wants to scare you off.”

“It occurred to me. And then I unoccurred it.”

He didn’t laugh. This wasn’t funny in the least.

“Honestly, it’s not me he’d be after; it’s you guys. And he’s not exactly the subtle type. If he did want me, I don’t think he’d leave a message.”

No, probably not.

“It’s never been anything this bad before, but it’s not the first time some redneck, beer-swilling asshole has decided to get even with me for writing him a ticket or hauling him in on a DUI. I’d lay money that’s what we’re talking about here.” She opened her mouth, then closed it quickly, as if she had more to say but had thought better of it.

“What?”

Indecision washed across her features. But before she could continue, a car drove by, flying down the country road at an unsafe speed. She jerked away from him and leaned forward toward the windshield, glaring after it. “Damn. Missed the license plate number.”

Soft woman to hard-edged cop in less than ten seconds. What an irresistible combination.

Clearing her throat, she spoke again, as if the subject of the dog, and whatever else she’d been about to tell him, had never come up. “You said you’re having problems with jurisdiction in the case?”

He let her get away with it, knowing Stacey wasn’t the type to hold back if something was really important. She said what needed to be said, when it needed to be said. He had no doubt that if she had something else on her mind, she’d tell him when she was ready. “Yes. Wyatt’s jumping through hoops to keep on top of it. But at least it’s made the BAU sit up and take notice. They’ve stopped stonewalling the agent working on the profile. We should have it in a couple of days.”

“I bet we can make a couple of assumptions about this guy even without it.”

“You know, assume is a very bad word in law enforcement.”

“I know, I know. But come on, there are a few obvious points.”

“Such as?”

“He was probably an abuser of animals.” Incredulous, given what they’d just discussed, he merely stared.

“I still don’t think what happened to Lady is connected to this,” she insisted.

Giving up, he merely replied, “Okay. Animal abuse is actually a strong commonality among serial killers. Know anyone with a history of that kind of thing?” Frowning, he added, “Or two anyones?”

She shook her head. “Not that I know of. But I’ll ask my dad.”

“Good idea.”

Leaning back in her seat, she thought quietly before continuing to speculate. “He hates women.”

“Could be. Or he could want women and be unable to sexually perform with them, so he kills them instead.” He paused before adding, “Three were violated with unidentified objects.”

She shuddered. But not because of the air-conditioning.

“Okay,” she said, “what about abuse?”

“Again, very possible. But not always.”

“Abandonment?”

“Maybe. But it could come from so many angles-a wife who walked out, a mother who died.”

She barked a quick, humorless laugh.

“What?”

“You just described both Randy and my brother.”

He said nothing, just watching her until she scowled.

“That’s not even funny.”

“They were both at the bar that night.”

“Back off, Agent Taggert.”

“That Covey guy, you said he’s a trucker, right? On the road a lot? He wouldn’t be missed if he’s gone overnight.”

“This is ridiculous.”

Treading carefully, he couldn’t help adding, “And your brother, he seems like a very angry man.”

“Angry, yes. Homicidal, no friggin’ way.” The heat in the car no longer came from the sun outside, but rather from her indignation. “Tim doesn’t even own a computer, for God’s sake. He lives in a crappy one-bedroom apartment in town and wants so much to retreat from the world that he seldom even answers his phone. I practically have to send up smoke signals when I want to see him.”

He’d seen the guy. He understood and pitied the poor bastard. “Look, I’m not accusing either of them of anything,” he insisted. “Just trying to make a point. Most times these profiles can be twisted to suit almost anyone, like that colossal screwup with the Atlanta Olympic bombing suspect. No doubt they can be very helpful. But they’re by no means the only tool we use to catch guys like this.”

She relaxed, at least a little, then grudgingly admitted, “Point taken. No more assumptions.” Sighing audibly, she deliberately turned her head and stared out the window. “It’s just… the waiting is killing me. All the possibilities, all the men who were at the tavern that night. We’ve got to narrow down the list.”

Noting the way she’d looked away, not meeting his eye, he had a sudden suspicion. “You’ve been working on the case.”

A slight nod.

“Damn it, Stacey.”

She shifted in her seat to meet his stare directly. “I haven’t done much. I talked to a couple of people, nobody dangerous. I certainly didn’t go question Warren Lee or anything like that.”

Small comfort. The idea that she might have confronted someone who could turn out to be the Reaper was enough to make him want to get her far away from here. Not that she’d ever run.

“I immediately thought of this latest kidnapping, wondering if Stan really had been working the late shift Friday night.”

His curiosity outweighing his concern, he asked, “And?”

Her frown answered even before she did. “His boss backed him up. Furthermore, the hospital confirmed Winnie’s story. Per their records, Stan brought her and signed her into the ER at two twenty a.m. the night Lisa died. And he was there to drive Winnie home when she was discharged at around six.”

The stepfather would have had to grab Lisa, stash her somewhere, go home and beat his wife, and drive her to the hospital in the next town, all within a thirty-minute period. Impossible. “So he wasn’t responsible for what happened to Lisa,” he said.

Her green eyes darkened. “At least not for her murder.”

The man was guilty of the rest; he didn’t doubt that. He only hoped that someday he was made to pay for it.

“What else have you got?” he asked, no longer worrying about whether she’d done the right thing in investigating on her own. Stacey wasn’t stupid. And what she’d told him already had helped a lot by ruling out a viable suspect.

“I tried to talk to Randy.”

“Why?”

“My brother told me Randy left a little before closing that night. Lisa did, too. I thought it was worth asking if he noticed anything as he was leaving-a truck pulling in, or maybe one he passed on his way back to town.”

“Did he?”

She shook her head. “I haven’t met up with him yet. I stopped by his house, and his mother told me he’s been doing a lot of overnight trips. He drives a big rig. She said she’d have him call me.”

Noticing a half smile lurking on her lips, he asked, “What?”

“Nothing. Mrs. Covey hates that I’m sheriff, and tries hard not to even notice my uniform. I think she really believed I was there for personal reasons, that I’m another fast girl trying to corrupt her good boy.”

He couldn’t help saying, “I like that about you, fast girl.”

She ignored him. “Randy’s getting his girlfriend pregnant when he was in high school did not go over well in the Covey house. I think she’s trying to scare away any other woman who might ‘trap’ him again.”

“Why does he stay?”

“Who knows?”

Dean couldn’t help thinking back to their earlier conversation about the profile. He had to say, “Abandoned by his wife, controlling mother. Do you think he was abused as a kid?”

Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth to hotly reply. But not a sound came out. Not a single sound.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t considered it,” he said, knowing she was too good not to have. “He’s a trucker, on the road all the time, traveling all over the place.”

“I’ve considered it,” she admitted, grudging but honest. “But he’s a big, obnoxious teddy bear.”

“John Wayne Gacy volunteered as a clown.”

“Yeah, I know. But Randy? I’ve never heard an angry word come out of his mouth.”

Before she could say anything further, another car swung into the gravel lot, parking beside his. She cast a quick glance toward the newcomer, murmuring, “I invited Mitch to meet me out here. Told him he should keep practicing with his good arm while his broken one heals.”

He immediately remembered the guy who had burst into their meeting on Saturday. He’d had some kind of relationship with the victim, and his boss hadn’t known a thing about it.

“You sure his arm’s really broken?” he asked, immediately thinking of the video of Amber Torrington’s brutal murder. Just because the Reaper had shown no sign of a cast didn’t mean Mitch Flanagan could be ruled out. For all he knew, the cast could be a perfect ruse, a visible disguise as well as a reason to miss work.

“Of course it’s broken,” Stacey snapped.

He didn’t argue, knowing her well enough to know she’d get there on her own.

“According to witnesses, including my brother, he argued with Lisa in the bar the night she disappeared. I want to talk to him, but I need to handle it carefully. I don’t want anyone putting the cart before the horse. If people think I’m questioning him, or that he’s a suspect… well, given his family, they’ll have him tried and convicted.”

“Bad background?”

“His father’s a nightmare.”

“Abusive?” He could see her grit her teeth, but didn’t back off. “Stacey, come on; you said yourself it’s relevant.”

Though she shook her head in denial, she admitted, “Yeah. He was pretty rough on Mitch, and I suspect he’s still knocking his younger son, Mike, around.”

“Do you think Mitch or the brother could be our guy?”

“Mike is probably capable of just about anything rotten, but I don’t see a teenager being the Reaper.”

“Just because most serial killers are at least in their mid-twenties doesn’t mean it’s a necessity. What about your deputy? Do you suspect him?”

“Of stupidity. Of being a sucker and falling for the wrong woman. But murder?” She shook her head slowly. “I can’t picture it. But at this point I’m not ruling anything out.” She reached for the door handle and sighed. “So I guess I’d better make a note to check on his broken arm.”

A good-looking guy in his late twenties, Mitch Flanagan had a lot going for him. Starting with being able to break free of his family’s no-good reputation and make something of himself, despite the odds against him.

Stacey had gone to school with him, though he’d been a few years behind her. But even as a senior, when she’d never spoken to him, she’d heard the snide comments and seen the condescending looks thrown his way. Girls were tempted by the bad-boy rumors, but warned away by their folks. Guys were threatened by his looks and smarts. He’d been a loner, keeping his head down, his nose clean, and his goal in sight.

Escape. That had been his goal. She’d known it then and she knew it now.

It had worked. He’d proved a whole lot of people wrong. He’d kept up his grades, never gotten into a day’s worth of trouble. And by his senior year, most people were almost able to forget his last name.

As far as she knew, he’d left his parents’ home the day after graduation and had never gone back. He’d pulled together enough money to go to college and get a degree. And her father had hired him right afterward. Stacey had promoted him to chief deputy a year ago. She’d never regretted her choice. Now, though, she had to wonder.

Because she needed her people to be honest with her. And he hadn’t been.

“Hey, Mitch,” she said as he stepped out of his car, careful with his broken arm. His cast, which Dean suddenly had her questioning, was scrawled with a few signatures and some graffiti, probably from the other deputies, all of whom looked up to him.

He was liked. He was sociable. He was smart.

So why on earth had he gotten himself mixed up with Lisa Zimmerman and then covered it up?

“Hi, Stace.” He glanced toward the other side of the car, where Dean stood, watching in silence. “He’s back?”

She nodded as Dean walked over to join them. “I don’t think you officially met the other day,” she said, quickly introducing them.

Mitch flushed, then shook Dean’s hand, obviously embarrassed by his unprofessional behavior. “Is there news?”

“No.” Few people knew the FBI was investigating other murders in connection with Lisa’s. She intended to keep it that way. If her subordinates wondered why the FBI was involving itself in a local case, they’d just have to keep wondering.

“You still haven’t found her?”

She shook her head.

“But you’re certain she’s dead?”

Dean stepped in. “We’re certain.”

Seeing the dazed, empty look in Mitch’s eyes, Stacey reached out and put a bracing hand on his shoulder. “We need to talk about this.”

“I know.” He glanced at Dean, as if wondering if the other man had to stay, but Stacey wasn’t going to let Mitch off the hook just because he was her friend. The case was much too important for that. Realizing as much, Mitch shrugged. “Go ahead.”

“How long had you been seeing her?”

“About six months,” he admitted. “I pulled her over one night for speeding.”

Wonderful.

“She was upset. Crying. She looked a little banged-up. I thought maybe one of those rough guys she went out with had knocked her around.”

She knew what he was going to say before he said it. “I found out later it was that bastard stepfather of hers. He…” Mitch’s face turned red, and obvious rage tightened his entire body. “I really considered killing him.”

“I didn’t hear you say that,” she muttered with a frown, even though she understood the sentiment.

Vilifying Stan wouldn’t help, however. They already knew he hadn’t murdered Lisa. Maybe her spirit, yes-he had probably killed that. But hell would have to deal with him. There was nothing she could do to the man now unless Winnie stepped forward to charge him with her own abuse.

“Tell me you’re investigating him for Lisa’s murder,” Mitch said, still tense.

“He’s been ruled out.”

He pounded his fist against the hood of his car. “You’re sure?”

“He’s got a solid alibi, Mitch. He might be a twisted degenerate, but he didn’t kill her.”

His shoulders slumped, as if he’d wanted Stan to be guilty. Like Stacey, he had to want justice for the man who’d abused Lisa all those years.

“Go back to what you were saying. What happened with you and Lisa?”

“We started getting together. Not around here-we’d go up to Front Royal and grab some coffee or catch a movie. She was talking about cleaning herself up, maybe trying for her GED. Doing something with herself. I wanted to help, so we’d meet once in a while and go over some stuff.”

The reformed bad kid tutoring the lost girl. There was something inherently sweet in that. If she’d known about it, she probably would have encouraged them both, even while urging Mitch not to get his hopes up too high.

She hadn’t known, however. Mitch had kept his secrets well. “You fell for her?”

He nodded, defiant. “She wasn’t what everyone thought she was. She was pretty and funny and smart.”

“And an addict,” Stacey said, not unkindly. “I suspect you were in over your head.”

“Yeah.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes, but held on to his control. “One day she said she wanted to stop seeing me. She’d hooked up with some ex-con, started using heavily again. I couldn’t get her to quit.” He frowned. “I thought for a long time she’d skipped town with him, until you mentioned that he was in jail down in Georgia at the time.”

“Let’s talk about the night she disappeared.”

“I went out to Dick’s to pick up my brother.” He cast a quick, nervous glance between Stacey and Dean. “He’s not really a bad kid.”

“Yeah, he is,” Stacey snapped. Seeing the sadness in Mitch’s expression, she grudgingly added, “But maybe there’s a chance for him.”

“You gotta understand. I was the buffer when he was little.”

A physical buffer. He’d been the wall between their father’s fists and his younger brother.

Maybe that was what had drawn Mitch to Lisa. Had he felt some deep, intrinsic need to protect her from her own abusive situation, when he’d once been too young to protect himself and felt guilt over abandoning Mike?

“Once I left, I swore I’d never set foot in that house again.” His face reddening, he muttered, “Our mom’s not interested in anything that doesn’t come out of a bottle. Mike has nobody.”

Having nobody to stand up for him hadn’t kept Mitch from breaking free. But she didn’t point it out. The guy knew it already; he just didn’t want to give up on his troubled sibling.

She got that. Wow, did she ever get that.

“I’m trying to reach out to him,” he admitted. “Trying to get him to come stay with me once in a while. The old man’s going to a NASCAR race later this week. I had been planning on picking Mike up, bringing him to the station. Letting him spend some time with some of the decent people around here…” Mitch’s voice trailed off. “I guess that’s not a good idea now, though.”

With an active murder investigation? Definitely not.

“Let’s get back to that night, Mitch.”

“When I showed up at the bar that night, Mike was about to get his butt kicked. He doesn’t like being laughed at. Mike was trying to pick a fight with a bunch of hard-drinking bikers who got a kick out of a kid thinking he could intrude on their turf.”

The teen was lucky he hadn’t gotten pulverized.

“I was hauling him out when I saw Lisa.” He swallowed visibly and leaned back against his own car, as if his legs had weakened. “She was dancing on top of the pool table. Moving like… like she was, you know, wanting to have sex with any guy there. I asked her to leave and she just laughed at me. So I pulled her down.”

“Bet that didn’t make her happy.”

“No. She scratched me, kicked me. Told me to mind my own business.” His voice lowered, thickened. “Told me she was sick of being around somebody who didn’t know how to have any fun and to leave her the hell alone.” Closing his eyes, almost whispering now, he added, “It wasn’t until after I left that I realized she was crying when she said it.”

“But you did leave.”

He nodded miserably. “Yeah. I took Mike home, then drove around for a while to try to get my thoughts together.”

“By yourself?”

Another nod. Stacey hid a frown, wishing Mitch had gone somewhere with lots of witnesses who could give him an alibi.

Did she think he was the Reaper? No way. But she was standing beside an FBI agent who had to be building a case against the guy in his head with every word that came out of Mitch’s mouth.

“I didn’t want to give up on her, though, especially once I remembered those tears on her face. So I went back.”

Oh, hell. “Back to Dick’s? What time?”

“I dunno, around closing.” He hunched forward, as if physically ill. “The place was crazy and packed. One of the waitresses said Lisa had just left, though she didn’t see who she was with. I probably didn’t miss her by more than minutes.”

More information nobody at Dick’s had bothered to volunteer. So much for doing one’s civic duty. She could only again surmise that Mitch’s position as her chief deputy had kept people’s lips glued shut.

“If I’d been there earlier, maybe she wouldn’t have left with him.” He sounded on the verge of tears. “Maybe I could have stopped her from going with someone bad who wanted to hurt her.”

“Going with him?” Dean asked, his tone sharp. “How do you know she voluntarily left with someone?”

Mitch slowly straightened. “Well, I just figured it. That was the last time anybody saw her, and Freed’s car was there. She had to have left with someone. Obviously the wrong someone.”

He didn’t speculate that she’d been taken. Then again, Mitch didn’t know anything about the Reaper, or the fact that he forcibly kidnapped his victims.

For all his intelligence and his background, he was still, at heart, a pretty innocent guy. She hoped, for his sake, that he never learned the true details of Lisa’s murder. Because, having seen his eyes and heard his voice, she didn’t doubt one thing.

He had loved her.

The Reaper had had direct, personalized requests before. He’d been offered bribes, had been accosted right in the middle of his playtime, had fielded personal e-mails filled with promises and pleas.

He’d never accepted.

The thrill of what he did was in the control it gave him. Other than someone else deciding how he would do what he did, the rest was in his hands. And the how was incidental. Only the doing mattered. Only the blood. The anguish. The terror. The pain.

All that was in his control. As was the identity of his prey.

So when others had reached out, offering to pay him to kill a man, or a brunette, or a specific person someone wanted out of the way, he had always refused. He wouldn’t be manipulated or controlled. He would never sacrifice the pleasure he gained from killing his favored victims to please anyone else.

At least, he thought he wouldn’t. Now he wasn’t so sure. He’d never foreseen a situation like this one, where he might actually be forced to do so.

He’d had enough of being forced. Enough of being powerless. And the rage over Warren Lee trying to make him that way again had him ready to erupt in ferocious retribution.

He was a hand grenade with the pin pulled. Ready to land right in Lee’s lap.

“Calm. Control,” he whispered, feeling his heart race and his breath grow hot.

He counted to ten, forcing the helpless anger down into his gut, where it had lived, seethed, and taken root years and years ago. He could get through this. Even if he had to, just once, go out of his way to accommodate someone else’s desires.

Possibly sick desires. One potential client, a big fan from the start, had been particularly interested in choosing a very specific type of victim. He not only wanted to name the age, sex, and physical description; he’d insisted on seeing certain acts. Followed by the brand of death he preferred.

And he’d offered an absolute fortune to see it done.

The very idea had repulsed the Reaper. He wasn’t some sicko like that guy. Talk about weird.

The offers had been easy to refuse because, before, it hadn’t mattered. The money hadn’t mattered. He had certain needs. The auctions and drive-in ticket prices allowed him to meet them. All was well.

Now, though, with Warren Lee evading him, hiding out in his fenced fortress, almost certainly armed and watching every one of his security monitors around the clock, he wasn’t going to be able to meet them much longer.

It was Wednesday night. He had three more days to come up with the cash to pay Lee’s blackmail. And so far, his efforts to get at the man by lurking in the tree studded forest along his property in the middle of the night had been useless.

Spotting Lee’s security cameras hadn’t proved a challenge. He’d easily avoided that danger. Hidden by the thick woods of the state park, he stayed out of visual range, only a shadow drifting through the softly blowing leaves. Sitting high in a tree overlooking Lee’s land, he kept his night-vision binoculars close to his face, watching for any movement, any sign of life. Lee hadn’t come out of his house on the previous two nights. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t tonight.

He only needed one shot. Just one.

But he doubted he’d get it. Warren Lee knew who he was. Lee also, therefore, knew he was up against someone who knew how to handle a gun. He couldn’t be stupid enough to think he could threaten blackmail and not face retribution.

Then again, people were stupid.

He could have taken out the security cameras and gone in for a frontal assault. But Lee would be expecting that. The moment security went down, he would go on high alert. The vet supposedly had weapons that would make a terrorist jealous.

No, this was his only option, short of staking out Lee’s driveway by day, following him, and forcing him off the road somewhere. But the potential to get caught was much too great. He had to control the situation. He had to be in charge of the where and when.

Here. And soon.

“You won’t come out in the darkness. But I’ll stay here until morning if I have to,” he whispered, his lips barely moving.

In daylight, the risk of exposure would be great. With the coming of dawn, one of the park guards or some family on a campout could spot him or his truck, which he’d pulled off the road into a well-hidden clearing. They might hear a shot and come to investigate. Or they might just see him driving out of the park and remember his face or his vehicle.

The sheriff and the FBI had already been nosing around out here. If Lee turned up dead, they’d immediately connect the cases. Any chance sighting by a witness could screw him up. He needed to avoid being seen at all costs.

Still, he had to try.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t earn the money to pay Lee off, as disgusting as he found the idea. He just wanted the satisfaction of blowing away the man who’d blackmailed him. “Blowing away isn’t good enough,” he told the night. “What I wouldn’t give to show you what drawing and quartering is like. Let you watch while your guts spill out.”

Nice fantasy. But there was no time.

He had tonight, just this final night. Because if he was going to have to come up with the money, the wheels had to be set in motion by tomorrow. He needed to advertise, get things rolling. After that, things would be tight.

Thursday, the auction.

Friday, the kill.

Saturday, the payoff.

And he’d get his revenge on Warren Lee sometime afterward.

It could work. But he hoped it didn’t have to go down that way. He’d much rather deal with the man right now.

Which was why he settled more comfortably into the crook of the limbs, unblinking, relentless, with the binoculars at his eyes and the scoped rifle in his hands.