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His sister had been tormented, mentally tortured, and this man, this fake, ungodly impersonator of a priest had blamed Dr. Sam for her death.
But that was wrong. His sister’s death had just been an excuse for him to exercise his own sick passion, his compulsion for murder.
And now she would end it.
Except that it wasn’t working.
To her horror she realized he’d reached behind his head and wedged a finger into the small space between the rosary and headrest. Just as the car picked up speed. Had he hit the accelerator on purpose? The Impala rushed forward, careening crazily, tearing through brush.
“No!” she said aloud. “Oh, God, no!”
Bam!!!
The car slammed against a tree, glanced off, tires spinning.
Momentarily she lost her grip, the chain sliding through her fingers, razor-sharp beads slicing her fingers.
Forcing herself, she caught the rosary again, grasping hard. But it was too late. He’d taken advantage of the momentary slack.
A second finger joined the first.
Tugging against her.
No, no, no!
She pulled again, throwing herself against the backrest, pulling tight.
Yowling in pain, he flung his whole body forward and screamed, blood visible on his fingers as he ripped the rosary from her hands.
The car plunged into the swamp and the rosary slipped through her fingers.
He was out the door in a second, standing knee deep in the water and weeds. Samantha cowered away, but there was no hope as he opened the back door, leaned inside, and pressed the cold, horrid stun gun against the side of her neck.
Her body jolted and she was quivering again, but she heard his words clearly. “Now,Doctor,it’s your turn to die.”
* * *
Aldo lunged.
His sharp oyster-shucking knife raised, he swung at Kristi.
She rolled at the last second, her body a ball.
She knocked his feet out from under him, felt his blade glance off her shoulder.
Aldo slipped on the bloody floor to land atop his dead rival.
Adrenaline burning through her blood, Kristi scrambled to her feet, sliding in Cooke’s blood and stumbling. She broke her fall by grabbing a shelf, felt a glass jar, and hurled it at Aldo as he tried to stand.
He ducked. The jar flew past him to crash against a wall in the kitchen, shattering on the floor.
She found another jar. Threw it fast.
Again the jar went sailing to smash with a thunderous crash against the floor.
The gun—where the hell was the gun?
Aldo struggled to his feet and feinted as her fingers scrabbled for another weapon, anything. A can. She flung it at the man who had killed her husband, the deranged psycho who had tried to kill her, the murderer who had butchered Hamilton and Reggie Cooke.
