Cold Fear (31 page)

What about the killer?

Cold dread spread over her nerves.

That was stupid. Paranoia. Just because someone had folded the blanket did not mean they’d spied on her and Frazer.

She let herself into the house, Barney racing to his chow bowl in the hopes of magical food regeneration. She took out her Glock and slowly worked her way around the building, room by room, until she reached Kit’s bedroom. Izzy gently eased open the door, and there was her sister, curled up on her side, covers raised high under her chin as she snored softly.

Tenderness welled up. The kid was a brat and a pain in the ass and she loved her sister more than she loved life. She’d sacrificed so much for this incredible child already, even before she was born. Izzy silently backed out of the room.

She needed her sleep.

Barney was already there, taking up the middle of the bed. She pushed him over and then slid beneath the sheets. Barney placed his head on her chest, his weight solidly reassuring. Izzy closed her eyes and images of Lincoln Frazer smiling, touching her, telling her about his ex, ran through her mind. But rather than keeping her awake, sleep crept over her as she pulled him tight and held him close.

Chapter Nineteen

N
EXT MORNING,
I
ZZY
called the garage but no one answered. It was early, but Seth Grundy usually started work around seven. She left Kit sleeping in and put Barney in Ted’s truck, figuring she’d stop at the garage first and if her car wasn’t ready yet, she’d go up to Currituck National Wildlife Refuge to check out the ponies and take some pictures of the sunrise. She missed seeing the horses roaming the beaches the way she had as a kid, but at least up there they weren’t getting run-over in traffic.

It was still dark.

And, perhaps, she was hoping to avoid both of the federal agents staying in her beach house. Perhaps she wanted to pretend last night hadn’t happened. Sex was one thing. Sex while hiding a secret as big as hers, with someone whose integrity meant everything to him? Whose career meant everything to him? She’d made a massive mistake.

The entire episode had been completely selfish because Lincoln Frazer wouldn’t have touched her if he’d known the truth about her past. The fact he was attracted to her was irrelevant. She’d gone to him under false pretenses, and it was unforgivable.

Self-disgust rose up inside. She was going to have to tell him everything and trust he’d protect Kit from the worst of it.

After years of trying to outrun the grimmest episode of her life, she knew she had to stop and confront it. What was that saying? “The truth would set you free, but first it would piss you off.” That was exactly how Lincoln Frazer was going to remember her.

Seth’s garage was on the west side of Whalebone, tucked into some scrubland just before you hit all the outlet malls and mini golf emporiums.

Ted’s truck bounced over ruts in the road as she got off the main highway. She’d been here many times in daylight, but it was a lot creepier in the darkness. Fog crept over the island and made it hard to see more than ten feet in any direction. The hairs on her nape stood taut, and even Barney whimpered.

She pulled up around the front of the garage, but there were no lights on that she could see. Seth lived in an apartment above the shop. In her headlights, she could make out her SUV inside the bay doors, glass intact, outside gleaming. He’d not only fixed it in record time, he’d obviously detailed her vehicle too, and that brought a little lump of gratefulness to her throat.

Barney whined again, and she realized belatedly he needed to go. Duh. She turned off the engine and opened the door and climbed out, stuffing her hands in her jacket as the cold wind buffeted her. Barney jumped out of the truck and went to sniff the nearest patch of grass. Fog crept close to him, and the eerie shadows made her flesh crawl. It felt like a million sets of eyes watched her just out of sight. The brunt of the latest storm had hit the mainland south of the Banks but was still creating high winds and blustery skies. She took her weapon from the holster and slipped it inside her coat pocket. She closed the cab door, quietly, not wanting to disturb Seth if he was sleeping, as the guy had obviously worked his balls off last night fixing her vehicle.

The thin shriek of a birdcall shot through the air and straight through Izzy’s heart. Barney shot off into the darkness. Dammit.

“Barney!” she called softly. Nothing.
Crap
. She really needed to work on his obedience training. She sniffed cautiously. The scent of gasoline and burning rubber hung on the damp air. A rustle in the bushes had her swallowing nervously and backing up a step. “Barney,” she called again.

Nothing except the sound of the sea. Not the whisper of the wind in the grass or the racing of paws. It made the pounding of her heart seem even louder. And then she heard it—the sharp whimper that told her her dog was in pain.

“Barney?” She edged into the marsh, taking a few steps off the narrow path and immediately becoming disorientated. He whimpered again, and she wondered if he’d chased a rabbit down its burrow. “Here, boy,” she called out, trying to sound positive.

Nothing.

Damn.

Something slammed into her out of the mist and smacked her headlong into the ground. Pain exploded in her jaw, but whatever sound she made was smothered by a heavy leather glove that also cut off her air supply. She tried to bite, but was dragged to her feet against a lean body and lifted up into the air. She flailed wildly, kicking, trying to get to her gun, but her assailant wrapped his other arm so tight around her waist her arm was trapped and the Glock dug painfully into her abdomen.

Her brain was struggling to comprehend what was happening, pain and lack of oxygen and plain old-fashioned shock making her thought process dull and blunt. Her kicks grew weaker as she was hauled across sandy paths into the scrubby dunes near the inlet. Barney barked again, and she managed to nail her attacker hard enough in the knee that he stumbled. But rather than releasing her he fell on top of her, his weight crushing. He pressed her face into the sand, punching the back of her head, pummeling her with thick meaty fists.

Oh, God.

She couldn’t breathe.

Then the words began to penetrate. “Fucking whore. Fucking bitch. Worthless piece of shit.” All hissed in a low voice, saturated in hatred.

The constant rain of punches made her head pound. She tried to protect her nose from a direct hit that might kill her outright, protect her airway, her eyes, her vital organs. She was already on her way to a possible concussion, and she had the feeling this guy had barely gotten started.

She raised her head enough to spit out the sand in her mouth, and forced a sound past her frozen vocal cords. Not a scream. A pathetic groan.

Remembering what had happened to Helena made her heart slow for a few seconds before furiously speeding up. The attacker stood, and the relief at the removal of his weight from her ribcage was tremendous. Then he drew back his foot and kicked her in the stomach. His boot caught her gun, and the combination made her head spin as she cried out and sprawled on her back.

Lincoln Frazer would not be happy to find her dead body here in the scrub. He’d wonder why she hadn’t fought the man off, why she hadn’t screamed louder. She tried to inhale but still no real sound wanted to come out of her body.

Peering up through the fog she saw a tall, thin man. He wore a balaclava that hid his features, but she could smell the pungent scent of sweat along with alcohol and the heat of his hatred. Words of hate spilled endlessly from his lips, but she couldn’t make sense of them—maybe she wasn’t supposed to. He kicked her again, and she almost vomited from the blow.

She couldn’t believe she was armed and yet still lying here helpless. She tried to reach for her gun, but he stomped on her wrist, crushing the delicate bones there and making her scream in agony. At least she finally made some noise, so she screamed again at the top of her voice. The man smacked his fist into her chin and stars whirled around her mind. Then the asshole jerked at her shirt, ripping the front, buttons flying off in all directions. Ice crawled over her flesh. She didn’t want to be raped. Didn’t want to die. She forced her injured wrist to move, despite the fact she was pretty sure something was broken. White-hot agony screamed along her nerves, but she ignored it and finally got her finger on the grip of her pistol.

But suddenly someone else was there and her attacker was crying out and tumbling off her to land in a heap in the grass. Whoever had come out of the darkness to rescue her was punching her assailant in the face over and over again.

She lay there panting and then a cold tongue touched her face, kissing her, madly trying to revive her.

Barney.

He was safe. Him being there put her scattered senses back together. She hugged him to her. Glad they were both okay.

Somewhere in the background she heard Seth Grundy speaking on his cell. “Hank. You need to get down here fast. I think I caught your serial killer attacking Izzy Campbell right here on my property.”

Izzy turned her head to see the man lying on the ground beside her. Seth leaned down and yanked the balaclava off the man’s head. Izzy flinched.

It was Duncan Cromwell.

*     *     *

F
RAZER SAT ON
the couch, staring at the murder board. It was still dark outside, but he’d managed a few hours of sleep and was awaiting updates from the lab, the ME’s office, Hanrahan, Columbia Police Department, Parker and Rooney, and Chief Tyson.

He was getting the silent treatment from Lucas Randall, but he shrugged it off. Memories from last night kept coming back to blast him, including the one where Isadora had crept out like a drunken college hook-up. What irritated him more is he’d let her—pretending to be asleep when what he’d really wanted to do was snag her hand and drag her back to bed.

Why hadn’t he stopped her?

“You worked up a profile yet?” Randall asked finally, coming out of the kitchen munching on a bowl of cereal.

“Working on it,” said Frazer. “Did you get anywhere with the traffic cams?”

“I sent a list of fifty possible vehicles to cops in Maysville, hoping we can get some sort of hit on their ALPR system, but nothing yet. The system flagged a few unreadable images that I need to go check out.”

There were other ways for the unsub to travel too. Boat or even his own plane. But some of the photographs suggested Jessica might have been assaulted and murdered in the back of a van. Frazer found himself staring at all the names on the white board. He’d added Jessica Tuttle to the list of victims. The boy Jesse Tyson was a common connection, and the chief was working on that list of old cases that might have generated someone with a personal grudge against him. But it didn’t feel right. It would mean that not only had Denker buried his victims here seventeen years ago, but also that Chief Tyson had subsequently happened to move to this area. It was one coincidence too many.

Jesse could still be the link but probably not because of his father’s distant past. He made a note for Tyson to list any cases that had occurred on the Outer Banks itself. If the killer was from here that might make more sense.

Frazer glanced outside. The first glimmer of an orange dawn was lightening the horizon, but the weather was grim and the ocean stormy, which fit the simmering undercurrent of tension in the room. He decided to meet it head on. “She came to me.” Technically.

Randall’s lips curled. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“I don’t give a shit how you feel. I’m just telling you I didn’t set out to seduce her. She came to me.” He forced himself to push out the next words. “I like her.”

“You
like
her? You sleep with a smart, courageous, hardworking, beautiful doctor who served her country in uniform, and you
like
her? Don’t go overboard with the yucky stuff there, pal.”

“You want me to declare undying love after knowing a woman for a few days?” Frazer asked dryly. “Not my style.”

Randall stared at him stone-faced for a long moment, then nodded, apparently satisfied with whatever he saw. “She seems like a good person. Don’t fuck her around.”

Frazer eyed him. “You do remember I’m your superior, right?”

“Only in rank.” A grin caught Randall’s mouth. “And you owe me, especially considering you got to make out with a gorgeous woman last night and I got to sleep with her dog.”

Randall was a good guy.

“I should have told you about Rooney.” Frazer’s voice became gruff. “I was pretending none of it was happening so I didn’t have to worry about her or the baby.” The woman had already risked everything once and deserved nothing but the best. But life didn’t always keep its promises of happy-ever-after, as he’d witnessed firsthand when T.J. Knottes had walked into his family home in rural Wisconsin and shot his father dead, and fatally wounded his mother while she’d been making banana bread in their pretty cottage kitchen. To this day the smell of bananas made him want to puke.

“Caring about people sucks. I get it.” Randall sipped his coffee. “Anyway it was my fault. Mal pushed me away when I was critical of Alex. She loves him and he’s a good guy. I’ve got to stop with the overprotective bullshit. She’s having his baby for Christ’s sake. The woman can handle herself.”

Yes, she could. Isadora Campbell could handle herself, too. Was she awake yet? Did she regret what they’d done? Would he be able to persuade her to do it again?

He reminded himself he had a job to do. He cleared his throat. “The basic profile is simple. The unsub is physically strong enough to carry the dead bodies of his victims for short distances over rough terrain.” He thought of poor Elaine Patterson. “He likely has above average intelligence, but underperformed academically. He’s able to blend in with the community and is highly mobile. Despite the fact that only two bodies have been found on the Outer Banks, his familiarity with the locale suggests he either lives here or has spent considerable time here in the past. I’m betting this is his home territory.” He picked up his own coffee, staring at the murder board, wishing there were fewer victims and knowing there were likely many more. “The ease with which he takes women tells me he’s gregarious and socially competent. He’s also manipulative and self-centered. He knows how to make people do what he wants them to do. He drives a van or truck that he uses for both the abduction and to transport the dead bodies, and probably to commit the murder. Also, he sometimes rides a dirt bike—you run those yet?”