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It should be here that he could. In privacy. Without any interruptions.
He finished peeling back the tape, and she shrieked through a hoarse croak.
He uncapped a bottle of water and held it up. “You thirsty?”
She halted her screams and stared at the water as if it were life. He had control. He decided if she got to have a drink or if she would not. She nodded and he eased the bottle to her cracked, dry lips and let her partake her fill. She gulped half the bottle; rivulets of water dribbled down her chin.
“Please let me go. I won’t tell. I’ll say I needed to get away. Please.”
“They’re looking for you, you know. I even led a search party myself.” No one would suspect him.
Except Agent Rainwater. She was another matter altogether. He was going to have her. Patience. No rushing.
“Please, my son...”
“He’s with Mother. Snug as a bug in a rug.” He caressed her cheek. She flinched and he frowned.
“I don’t know why you’re doing this. You know I’d be willing to do whatever you ask voluntarily. Even...even here and like this. I don’t understand!”
“Has it ever crossed your mind I don’t want to have to pay someone? That a willing and free yes would mean more.” He picked up the paper sack and pulled out a club sandwich. “Hungry?”
“No.”
That word again. “Fine,” he clipped. He inched closer, framed her face and kissed her. “So pretty.” Then his hands wrapped around her neck. “So...fragile.”
And he squeezed.
Monday, October 23
11:02 a.m.
John crouched in the tall grass behind two towering pines, his binoculars searching the old trailer and property up near the covered bridge. After last night, they’d decided to do a briefing over breakfast at the little coffee shop in Crow’s Creek. John, Ty and Violet had ordered a light breakfast and strong coffee. Agent Pulaski had stuck around but forfeited breakfast this morning. Violet planned to talk to Regis today about his brother, Cecil. He knew full well they’d noted Cecil as a person of interest, and yet he’d kept his yap shut tight. Why? Violet wanted to spearhead that questioning.
Ty and Agent Pulaski’s crack at Wendell didn’t pay off. They couldn’t find him. John was fairly certain they’d find Bella Dawn, but it would be too late. This killer showed no mercy, and he didn’t prolong things. By now he knew his time was short. He wouldn’t hang on to her.
But it was possible their killer was law enforcement. Which was why John had crept up to the Swallow soon after their breakfast meeting to watch for Greg and Whiskey, follow them and hope to find the meth lab. See Greg in his element. Violet had asked him questions the other night that raised hairs on John’s head. Questions that John hadn’t entertained until he realized Violet’s motives. Greg had been undercover a very long time. He had tasted power and the freedom to do whatever he wanted. Whiskey ran this holler and maybe even the county. With Greg rising in power, he had access to darkness he might find enticing. Maybe he didn’t want to bring Whiskey down at all. He was prolonging the bust because he liked the criminal life. He had money available that he wouldn’t as an agent. Women.
What if Callie realized this and he killed her? He could be the Blind Eye Killer. John had no idea about his religious beliefs. He was seen with Bella Dawn. The murders didn’t happen prior to Greg’s arrival. He was bent on keeping John out of the loop with the reasoning that he needed more time. But what if he was stalling out because he was enjoying this life?
Enjoying getting away with murder. Whiskey wouldn’t suspect his right hand. The DEA wouldn’t. He was the inside man. The good guy.
But what if he wasn’t?
That was what Violet had been thinking, and she didn’t trust John with the information. He understood. He was emotionally invested in ways no one else on the team was. He needed to see Greg in his element. Determine for himself if he was undercover or if he’d become the legend written about him. Had he been influenced by the dark side? It was seductive. Even Callie had trouble coming out from her personas from time to time depending on how deep, how far and how long she’d been under. But she’d craved it. Thrived in it. Lived for it.
Far more than she’d lived for a normal life with him—with Stella.
John watched as a car pulled up. Ruby Boyd and Amy Miller exited the vehicle.
Greg stomped out of the rickety trailer, speaking to Ruby. She ignored him and met Whiskey at the door. He touched her face and kissed her. She didn’t look happy at all.
Amy stayed down by the stairs with Greg. The front door closed, and all that was left was Greg and Amy. He ran his hand through her hair, tilted her head back, his eyes devouring her. John clenched his teeth as he whispered in her ear. Amy wasn’t fighting, but she didn’t appear to be as enthralled as Greg. Greg glanced up at the covered windows, then he led Amy inside. John beat his fist on his palm. If he had to guess, these women were being trafficked. Neither Ruby Boyd nor Amy Miller seemed to be there out of free will. A beat-down, forlorn expression cast down their countenance. Greg had succumbed to the darkness. No one was around to pretend in front of. If he could see Amy Miller wasn’t thrilled about his hands on her body, then he didn’t care.
And John wasn’t having it.
He kept low and moved through the tree line toward the house. What was he going to do? Out here, he wasn’t in control. The law meant nothing. They could end him, bury his body and he’d never be found. No one out here confessed, confided or even considered aiding the law, or they did it anonymously.
He had no backup.
