“You’re as tough as you ever were,” he said. “I like that.”
The raspy voice was familiar. They had met before. She barely remembered the night of her rape, but since the lab had confirmed the same assailant committed all the assaults, she’d tried unsuccessfully to remember. Matt’s DNA would have proven if her case was connected to the others, but there was no telling what had happened to that sample.
He rolled her on her back, straddled her midsection, and pressed his full weight onto her abdomen. He slapped her face hard. “Wake up.”
Her head rattling with pain, she looked up into the masked face of her captor. Carefully, he removed his gloves, tugging each finger free. He set the gloves aside and carefully traced the hollow of her neck with his index finger. She flinched. Memories of lying on her back in a cold field and struggling to breathe came back to her.
“Are you afraid?” he asked.
Think like a cop. Focus on the facts. One day I will be a witness to this. I will survive.
Eyes, blue. Skin, Caucasian. Midthirties, maybe older. Fit. One hundred ninety to two hundred pounds. His nails were clean, neatly trimmed, and his hands free of calluses.
She inhaled, noting the perspiration scent of a man.
He wrapped his hands slowly around her neck, rubbing the underside of her jaw with his thumb. Slowly, he tightened his grip, twisting his hands. “One, two, three.”
Black jeans. Dark hoodie. Athletic shoes.
As his count grew higher, she struggled to pull air into her lungs as she tightened the muscles in her neck. This must have been what drowning felt like. Her brain fogged, and her gaze grew hazy as she gasped for air.
“I like a challenge. So brave, little Brooke. Just like the last time.”
The reference to the past was not lost on her, even though she was desperate to breathe. A gurgling sound rose up in her chest, and her lungs burned. Panic rushed her. She did not want to die. She still had so much left to do. She had a son to raise.
She stared at him until her gaze completely dimmed and she felt herself falling into the blackness. Her heartbeat thundered, slowed, and then stopped altogether.
Suddenly, the panic was gone. Her mind floated upward above her body and his reach.
Her next sensation was crushing pain in her chest. She drew in a deep, painful breath and awoke to find his face hovering inches above hers.
He’d brought her back from death.
“Not yet, Brooke,” he said softly. “Don’t leave me just yet. You’re a strong one. We can do this again and again.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Thursday, November 21, 9:00 p.m.
“No cowboy shit.”
Andy’s words replayed in Macy’s head as she stared into the reporter’s camera and microphone.
Macy reminded herself that Bennett had been missing fifteen hours, and if she were still alive, her life expectancy wouldn’t be long.
When Sullivan beckoned Nevada back to the office, she made her decision to act. She knew this was the kind of move that would not win her a place on the profiler’s team in Quantico. This move was going to find her permanently chained to an FBI department housed in a basement somewhere in Podunk, America. Of course, all this was assuming she still had a job.
“Special Agent Crow, do you have an update?” Stuart asked.
“Can you broadcast live if I have an announcement?” Macy asked.
“I can.”
“Perfect. Let me know when you’re ready.”
He raised his phone and turned on a social media live application. He nodded and then introduced her.
“Deputy Brooke Bennett was taken from her home last night. I believe her abduction is directly linked to Tobi Turner’s murder, the three rapes that occurred in Deep Run in the summer of 2004, and the disappearance of Cindy Shaw that same year.” She held up the sketch Spencer had made. “We are currently searching for a white male in his midthirties. He uses red rope to bind his victims, and when he is capable, he resorts to sexual assault. Though he is wearing a mask, there might be something familiar about the man’s eyes. One woman just came forward after hearing our last news conference, and I’m hoping there are more individuals out there who may know something about this man. If you have a neighbor or colleague who fits this description and you’ve noticed unusual behavior, contact the Deep Run sheriff’s office immediately.” She paused and focused on the camera. “I’ve done a profile of this individual. He thinks of himself as weak and inferior to other males and has a desperate need to prove he can win. He is most likely impotent and uses violence to compensate for his shortcomings.”
“Agent Crow, do you have any leads on his identity?”
“Several,” she said. “And we’re receiving more by the hour.”
Challenging this killer openly was the kind of action that would get his attention. With luck, he’d shift his focus from Bennett to her.
She answered several more questions and then turned back toward the station. Nevada was standing outside the door.
And he looked pissed.
He saw Macy Crow’s interview minutes after it aired. At first he was amused. Who did she think she was? Years had passed, and he’d never been caught. Did she think she’d show up in town and just catch him?
But there was something in her voice that grated on his nerves and forced him to watch it again. And again. The more he watched the replay, the angrier he got.
“Shit, she is just baiting you,” he said to himself. “Don’t fall for it. All the cops have is a lame sketch.”
“He thinks of himself as weak and inferior.”
Macy’s words echoed in his head.
He was not inferior. He could beat her anytime, anywhere.
“Dumb bitch.” She thought she was going to catch him. She thought she was in control. But he was in control.
He had the power!
“He thinks of himself as weak and inferior.”
Again her words stoked his fury.
That pompous bitch! He reached for his phone and dialed a familiar number. When he heard a gruff greeting, he said, “I need you now.”
“This is bullshit. I told you I can’t keep doing this.”
He gripped the phone, clinging to the reins of his temper. “One more time.”
“You’ve said that before.”
“I mean it this time.”
Sucking in a breath, Brooke suddenly awoke. Her hands and feet were bound, making it awkward for her to push into a sitting position. She searched the darkness broken only by a light filtering under the cracks of a now-closed door.
She raised her bound hands to her throat and swallowed. The insides of her chest and throat burned as if they had been scraped raw. She tilted her head back against the wall to open her airway. She drew in deep breaths until she could think clearly.
She reached for the button on her waistband, decided whoever this guy was, he’d not raped her. Yet.
He’d taken her shoes, belt, and all the decorative pins she could have used as a weapon.
Her eyes adjusted to the dim light, and she could make out that she was in the same small room. The last time, she had barely had time to study it before he had arrived, but now she had a chance to assess.
It was not a basement, but a room. She searched the perimeter for a window, a grate, or a sharp edge to cut her bindings. When she found nothing that appeared to be of help, she reached for the bindings around her ankles and pulled hard, but the knots were locked down tight. She kept wedging her fingers into the bindings and pulling until a small section of rope gave way and she was able to unknot her ankles. Her heart pounding, she bit into the bindings around her wrists, trying to loosen them. She lost track of the time as she pulled at the knots and worked her hands back and forth until they came free.
When the red rope fell to the floor, she rubbed her raw wrists and wiggled her numb fingers until some of the circulation returned.
Outside, approaching footsteps stopped her cold. She closed her eyes and lay very still. All she needed was to place one strike to his knee or midsection. She had a chance of disabling him. Maybe then she could punch his throat or nose. She wanted to inflict the maximum damage. All this was assuming that her aim was true. If she missed, she’d just piss him off, and when he played his strangulation game, he could take it too far and kill her.
Holding her breath, she readied to kick. Floorboards shifted. But he never entered the room. Her heart beat in her throat as she waited for him. But the footsteps retreated.
Brooke quietly stood, her fists raised and body poised to fight. The muffled sounds of angry male voices reached the room. She strained to hear what the men were saying, but couldn’t make out the words. Hoping her jailer was distracted, she unclenched her fingers and twisted the doorknob. To her surprise, it turned, and the door opened. Her heart pulsed in her throat as she thought about the possibility of getting free. Then she hesitated. This was a trap. It had to be. What was he luring her toward?
However, she made the decision to go, knowing that staying assured her death. She opened the door and peered down the hallway. Slowly she moved, one careful step at a time, and made her way into a small living room. She looked around, ready to see him watching or lunging toward her. But she was alone in the room that was now bathed in shadows. She heard only silence. Flexing her fingers, waiting for an attack, she hurried toward the front door.