Blood Trails (13 page)

“Damn it, Holly, don’t play games with me. Something is wrong. Are you hurt? Are you in danger? Has something happened that you’re not telling me?”

She started to sob. “No…everything’s fine! Why wouldn’t it be? I spent the day telling the police that my mother was convinced my father was a serial killer. You know what the chief of police said? He said the Hunter was an animal…an animal that needed to be put down!”

Suddenly Bud got it. “Oh, honey…I’m sorry. I know this has been hard on you, but after they make their case, they’ll put out a warrant for his arrest. It might take a long time to find him, if he’s still alive. But you will have done everything—”

Holly cut him off. “He still lives here in St. Louis. They know where he is. They’re going through all the old files to see if they can find a link between him and the victims. But that’s just it,” she sobbed. “When they arrest him, everyone will find out about his past, his background, the whole thing. And the fact that he was turned in by his daughter will make me fresh fodder for the media. To be able to do what he’s done makes him a freak, which makes me a freak, too.”

“Damn it, Holly, you’re not a freak! That’s just not true!”

“Yes! It is true! Once I’m marked as the Hunter’s daughter, what man will ever love me? I won’t dare have children for fear they might turn out like him. No one will want me—ever!”

“That’s not true!” Bud yelled. “I want you! I’ve always wanted you.”

Holly choked, then clapped a hand over her mouth. Her pulse was roaring in her ears. Had she really heard that, or was it just her imagination?

Bud groaned. Now he’d done it, but by God, he wasn’t taking any of it back. When she didn’t answer, he knew she was shocked.

“Are you going to cry all night?”

“No,” Holly said, then winced. She sounded like a damn mouse, squeaking in the dark.

“Good. So keep your sweet ass in one piece and come home as soon as you can. Do you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Talk to you later.”

Holly shivered. “Later.”

The dial tone was suddenly buzzing in her ear. She dropped her phone and then covered her mouth with both hands, muffling her words.

“Oh, my God, oh, my God, he did not just say that.”

She bolted out of bed, dashed into the bathroom and flipped on the light. What she saw in the mirror made her wince. She looked like hell, with her hair all over the place, her eyes red and puffy, and her lips all swollen.

“Bud Tate loves me,” she whispered. It was her best dream come true.

She bent down and began splashing her face with cold water. After she’d dried herself off, she looked back at herself again. Still the same woman, with the same screwed-up life—except for one thing. Bud Tate loved her—and she loved him.

She shook her head and flipped off the light. Even after she’d crawled into bed and turned off all the lights, she still hadn’t come up with an answer to the million-dollar question.

Bud loved her, but in the cold light of day, would it be enough to get past who she was?

Eight

H
olly went to bed thinking about Bud, reliving the moment of his revelation. There was no doubt in her mind that she loved him. They all loved him. But she loved him more.

She began thinking back to all the times in the past couple of years when she’d turned to him instead of her father for comfort or advice, how she’d planned certain meals around his comings and goings, knowing that she was making his favorite foods. It should have been obvious to a fool, but he’d never said a thing. The sound of his footsteps on the back porch had always made her heart skip a beat. Had he said what he had just to make her feel better? Surely not.

The longer she thought, the more she wanted to tell him right away how she felt. The panic she’d felt when she’d seen him bleeding, the lurch of longing she’d had when she’d seen him strip off his shirt, the fear that something would happen to him while she was gone. Her love for him was there. It had been there for years. She knew Bud well enough to know that the next step would have to come from her. He’d said what was in his heart, but he wouldn’t cross a line. They were always going to be family, regardless of what came next. She had to find the courage to face him despite this blight on her soul. She had to look into his eyes to see the truth.

The one thing that hadn’t changed was her horror of the situation she was in. She couldn’t wrap her head around being related to a man who could commit murder…repeatedly. Bringing children into the world who would be blood kin of a serial killer seemed like an irrational thing to do. Her emotions were in chaos by the time she finally turned off the lights and closed her eyes.

Someone was hammering. It was loud enough that it woke Harriet up from her nap. Confused, she crawled out of her bed and went down the hall, calling for her mother, but she didn’t answer. She went into the kitchen, because that was where Mother always was, but the room was empty. When she looked out the window, she saw that the family car was gone.

The hammering stopped. Harriet called out for her daddy, and when he didn’t answer, she went to the basement door and opened it. The basement light wasn’t on, but she could see a faint light beyond the stairs. The stairs always scared her. They were steep and, even with the light on, appeared to disappear into a black void. The repetitious sound of hammering began again. It was scary being up there alone. The need to see a familiar face overcame her fear of the dark.

“Daddy?”

Still no answer, just another round of hammering.

Taking a deep breath, she started down the steps, holding on to the wall for balance. The light from the kitchen behind her illuminated enough of the steps for her to navigate safely. When she reached the floor, she made a beeline for the faint glow of light escaping from around a closed door, then grabbed the doorknob and turned it quickly, anxious to find her daddy.

The light inside momentarily blinded her. She stumbled and reached out toward the wall to keep from falling. Something brushed across the back of her hand, something that felt like spiderwebs. She shrieked and yanked her hand back, but some of the strands had become entangled around her fingers.

“Daddy!”

His face was angry. So angry. She’d never seen him this angry before.

“You’re not supposed to be in here!” he yelled, then grabbed her by the arm and began dragging her back through the basement and up the stairs.

“I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m sorry!” she screamed, as she kept trying to get the spiderweb off her hand.

He saw what she was doing and grabbed her hand. He began ripping away the strands, then slammed her against the wall.

“You tell anybody what you saw in there and I’ll make you sorry. Do you understand me?”

“Yes! Yes!” she repeated. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I won’t tell. I promise.”

“If you tell, you’ll never see your mama again.”

She gasped. It was the worst threat possible. Everything around her seemed to stop. She could see her father’s lips still moving, but she couldn’t hear what he was saying. Her heart was pounding so fast it was hard to catch her breath. Then her daddy raised his hand as if he were about to hit her. Everything began to look fuzzy, and then it all went black.

Holly woke up with a start, grabbing at her fingers. It took a few moments for her to realize she’d been dreaming and that there was nothing on them. What was startling to her was that she’d just dreamed the answer to what she’d read in the journal the night before. Obviously having the hairs from the doll’s head wrapped around her fingers had become confused in her mind with that day and triggered the memory of the incident with her father. She could only wonder what else lay below the surface of her memory, and if she would remember it in time to help the St. Louis P.D. All she had now were bits and pieces of what might or might not be truthful memories.

“Oh, Lord,” Holly whispered, as she threw back the covers.

She wanted out of that bed and could tell from the light coming through the drapes that it was daylight. A quick glance at the clock verified the time—after 9:00 a.m. She hadn’t slept that late in ages. She started toward the bathroom to grab a quick shower before dressing, then realized she had nowhere to go. After her trip to the police department yesterday and the order to stay away from Harold Mackey, her investigative days were over.

What to do? Should she go back to Missoula? It wasn’t as if there was anything more she could do here. She plopped down on the side of the bed. The longer she sat, the more convinced she became that leaving now would be like running away. It wasn’t time. Not yet. Not until she saw him arrested.

She put out the Do Not Disturb sign, then locked herself in and stripped off her clothes as she headed for the shower.

As she closed the bathroom door, she caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. She’d never thought all that much about her body. Hard work had kept her fit, and she’d worn the same size for years. But how would Bud view her body? Where Maria was tall and lanky, she had curves, and breasts that hung like ripe, heavy fruit. She turned sideways, eyeing her flat belly and firm limbs. It might not be perfect, but she was comfortable in her own skin.

She ran her palms down her belly, then closed her eyes, pretending it was Bud who was touching of her. Just the thought made her ache. There was a sharp thud in the hall outside her room, then the sounds of someone laughing. Startled, she yanked her hands away and quickly got into the shower, but in her mind, she knew one day soon she and Bud would make love.

The new task force was hard at work. Files containing every detail of the Hunter’s victims were scattered all over the tables as a half-dozen detectives went through the info. Whit had sent another detective down to the evidence locker to find out what, if any, physical evidence was still in existence.

A lot of things happen that deter solving cold cases. The most common ones were witnesses dying, physical evidence deteriorating, even disappearing…and no new leads.

But in this case, they’d been given a name. And if it turned out to be the right name, Harold Lee Mackey was going to go down in the history of serial killers as one of the worst ones…if they could make their case.

Carver hadn’t wasted any time. The task force had commandeered one of the interrogation rooms and turned it into their headquarters. The beginning of a murder board was already in place and growing, with photos of the known victims tacked up on the board. Beneath each photo was a list consisting of age, place of employment, church affiliation, what kind of car she drove, where she got her hair done—everything that the detectives could find out in hopes of uncovering a pattern somewhere within the lists.

So far, nothing was jumping out at them, which was the same consensus the detectives had come to twenty years earlier. There wasn’t even a pattern as to where the killer had dumped the bodies, other than that they were all obscure locations. The only things the victims had in common were that they were all female, and they’d all been murdered after dark and scalped while they were alive—
before
their throats were cut.

They had a map of the city up on one end of the board, with color-coded pushpins denoting where the victims had worked and lived, and where the bodies had been found. Some victims had disappeared from a place of business. Others had been just outside their homes. But none had been kidnapped from inside a building, which the detectives noted was smart on the Hunter’s part. If he kept all the crime scenes outdoors, there was less chance of leaving behind physical evidence that would survive the elements.

Small flags designated Harold Mackey’s old house, as well as the location where he worked. There didn’t seem to be any more relation between those locations and the sites of the killings as there seemed to be between the killings themselves. They were going to need something that indisputably tied him to the crimes before they could get a search warrant.

Whit was holding out hope that Holly Slade might remember something that would give them an edge, but it wasn’t a sure thing. They needed cold hard facts. He stared at the murder board for a few moments more, then picked up another victim’s file and sat down at his desk. The answer had to be in there somewhere.

Bud hadn’t been able to sleep. After he’d gone to bed, he’d lain there thinking about what he’d said to Holly and praying that it wouldn’t ruin the bond between them. In an odd way, he was relieved that his feelings were out in the open. Either she would reciprocate them or she wouldn’t. He wouldn’t let himself think of a total rejection. Even if she didn’t love him that way, they had too much in common for her to cut him out of her life. With them being co-owners of the Triple S, she had to get past what he’d said so that life could go on. He loved all three women. But Holly was in his blood.

He got up before daylight and went to the kitchen to make coffee, padding through the silent house in his sock feet as he turned up the heat. When he glanced at the kitchen clock, it dawned on him that Judd Holyfield was already boarding a plane to Miami. Before the day was over, he would be with Savannah, the woman he loved. At that moment, he almost hated Judd for having something he didn’t.

As the day progressed and he didn’t hear from Holly, his mood grew darker. He was convinced that he’d ruined everything that had been good between them. If it hadn’t been for the stitches still in his hand, he would have run his fist through a wall. At least then he would have a real pain to focus on and not this awful emptiness that kept spreading inside him.

Harold’s day off had proved fruitful. The landowners he’d visited had been welcoming, which meant he would be good to go come the various hunting seasons he enjoyed, and welcome to use the farm pond where he usually fished.