Dead By Nightfall (34 page)
Authors: Beverly Barton
Chapter 34
He admired himself in the mirror. His image reflected the man he had been twenty years ago. Wealthy, sophisticated, handsome. Now, as then, he was at the top of his game. He was invincible. Indestructible. Immortal.
He was a god among men.
Griffin and Sanders and Yvette thought they had destroyed him. They were wrong. Much to their regret, they now knew the truth. Malcolm York had risen from the ashes like the proverbial phoenix. He would have his complete and absolute revenge against them soon enough. But for the time being, he was having far too much fun playing with them, tormenting them, watching them unravel at the seams.
York ran his slender fingers over his lean, hairless chest, down to his navel, and then he moved upward, pausing to rub his nipples with the pads of his thumbs. His penis twitched.
He was hard. He needed relief.
But you must try to remember that you prefer to watch and achieve fulfillment without ever touching a woman. You derive the most pleasure from their humiliation and pain.
He turned so that the woman could see him naked and aroused, the braided leather whip in his hand. Her eyes grew wide with alarm. He lapped up her fear with the gusto of a hungry cat consuming a bowl of cream.
Barely controlling the urge to use the whip himself and then screw the bitch unmercifully, York handed the whip to the muscular young man awaiting his command.
York stepped back and took a seat on the thronelike chair across the room. “Begin. Now.”
The naked youth cracked the whip twice and then lashed the young woman’s delicious buttocks again and again and again. Whelps formed on her smooth flesh, red, swollen, oozing rivulets of blood. She whimpered and squirmed, but could not escape. The rope binding her wrists together hung over a large hook in the ceiling, forcing her to balance herself on her tiptoes.
When she whimpered, he smiled. And when she began screaming, he laughed.
“Enough,” York called out as he rose from the chair and walked across the room.
He shoved the man aside, and then reached down and wiped the blood from a long, narrow gash on her left butt cheek. Placing his finger to his lips, he licked off the blood, savoring the coppery taste.
“Fuck her,” York ordered as he snapped his fingers.
He moved aside, and the young man came forward to do his bidding. An adrenaline rush surged through his body, blood engorging his penis and making it throb wildly. He watched with envy, hating himself for wanting to change places with his slave.
He was Malcolm York in every sense of the word. In looks, in speech, in presence, and in deed. But unlike his former self, the reincarnated York desired physical contact with women, not to simply watch another man beat them and screw them. But he was determined to overcome this one last defect that prevented him from a complete and total metamorphosis into the Malcolm York he had once been.
And will be again!
* * *
They flew out of Amara that night.
Sanders had not uttered a single word since they had left the beach. Neither Griff nor Barbara Jean had tried to force him into a conversation. Griff suspected that Sanders was not the only one in a state of shock. Barbara Jean had been only seconds away from death and he had been forced to stand by and watch the slaughter resulting from Sanders’s decision.
On the drive back to the resort, with Sanders in a near-comatose state and Barbara Jean weeping quietly, Griff had contacted his local head of security who resided on Amara year-round and explained there was a cleanup job on the eastern beach.
“I want the woman’s body sent directly to London,” Griff had said. “Contact Thorndike Mitchum for procedural instructions.”
Mitchum would handle everything with his usual efficiency and take care of all the necessary paperwork required to ship a body into the UK, presumably for burial. His second call was to Mitchum, detailing the situation and requesting a DNA test be done on the young woman.
“You have Sanders’s DNA on file,” Griff said.
His third call had been to Yvette, apprising her of recent events.
“Do you think Sanders will allow me to help him?” she had asked over the phone.
“Doubtful.”
“Do you think there is even the slightest possibility that the young woman may have been Sanders’s daughter?”
“No,” Griff had said adamantly. “But it may take the DNA results to completely convince Sanders.”
Four hours later, they were aboard the Powell jet, heading home to Griffin’s Rest. Going home to lick their wounds, recuperate, and find a way to be thankful they had lived to fight York another day.
Yvette had drugged Barbara Jean’s tea, per Griff’s instructions, and he had carried her into the plane’s bedroom two hours ago. She would sleep for hours, giving her a much-needed escape from reality. He hoped she wouldn’t have any nightmares.
When he had emerged from the bedroom, he had found Yvette sitting beside a silent and withdrawn Sanders. She hadn’t been talking to him or even touching him, just sitting there with him.
Griff longed for sleep, just a few hours’ reprieve from the never-ending hell in which he existed every waking moment. But restful sleep wouldn’t come, only snippets of snoozing on and off. He dozed off, thinking of Nic. He awoke, thinking of Nic. Wondering. Worrying. Tormented by images of her in captivity. He knew only too well the psychological damage being subjected to such depravity could cause. Even after sixteen years, he had not fully recovered from his experiences on Amara. A part of him would always be that wild, murderous animal that York’s inhuman treatment had created.
Griff leaned back and closed his eyes.
He felt Nic’s presence, as if she were there with him. She was so much a part of him that he would never again be a whole person without her. Love could create a bond that was more powerful than life itself, even more powerful than death.
A smile played at the corners of his mouth as he remembered the first time Nic had come to Griffin’s Rest. The reason she, Special Agent Nicole Baxter, had joined forces with him on the Beauty Queen Killer case had been because they were the only two people the killer had personally contacted. He could hear her saying, “I don’t like you. And we both know that I do not find you irresistible.” He had called her Nicki. She hadn’t liked it. He had known she wouldn’t.
On that very first visit, she had met Sanders and Barbara Jean and Maleah. By the way she and Maleah had hit it off, he should have known they would eventually become best friends.
While working on the BQ Killer case, he and Nic had butted heads continuously. During one rather heated conversation, they had summed up their opinions of each other.
“You’re an arrogant, egotistical, womanizing bastard who thinks the rules others live by don’t apply to you,” she had told him in no uncertain terms.
He’d shot right back at her. “I don’t like women who need to prove they can do everything a man can do and do it better. I like being a man, and I prefer women who enjoy being female.” That particular incident had ended with him grabbing her and her telling him not to ever touch her again.
He should have known then and there that he had met his Waterloo.
Griff chuckled softly as the warm memories comforted him.
“May I sit with you?” Yvette’s question jerked him back to the reality of the moment.
He opened his eyes and looked up at her. “Sure. Sit.” He patted the wide leather seat beside him.
“You were thinking about Nic, weren’t you?”
“I was remembering how we detested each other in the beginning. God, she was magnificent. Not like any woman I’d ever known.”
“You’ll get her back.” Offering him a sympathetic glance, she sat beside him.
“Will I?”
“There has to be a happy ending for one of us. I would say you and Nicole have the best chance for that happening.”
Griff stared across the aisle at Sanders, sitting alone, his eyes open but unfocused, his body as rigid as a marble statue. Only God knew what was going on inside the man’s head.
“He’s not going to let either of us in, is he?”
“Not yet. But eventually, he will turn to us. And hopefully, he will allow Barbara Jean to help him. She can be his salvation, if only he will let her.”
“Nic was my salvation,” Griff said. “She’s everything to me.”
“York is not going to win. We will not let him take any more from us. Nicole is going to live and the two of you will be together again.”
Griff prayed that Yvette was right. “You deserve to be happy, too. You need someone.” Without thinking, he reached over and clasped her hand.
She shuddered.
“What’s wrong?” he asked as he withdrew his hand.
“Nothing. I’m all right.”
“You were thinking about Rafe, weren’t you?”
Yvette gasped. “God, no. What made you think such a thing?”
“Because I was there on Amara with the two of you, remember. I know how you felt about Rafe and I know how much he loved you.”
“That sweet, wonderful boy named Raphael died on Amara,” Yvette said. “Rafe Byrne is as much a monster as Malcolm York.”
“You don’t believe that.”
“No, perhaps I don’t believe him to be the kind of monster York was, the monster this resurrected York is. But Rafe is cruel and heartless. There is no love or compassion in him. And ... he hates me.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned his name. I didn’t realize ...” Griff groaned. “I’ll shut up now. Why don’t you go lie down on the sofa and try to take a nap?”
She patted his hand as she got up, a faraway look in her eyes. “Wherever she is, whatever she is going through, Nicole loves you, too, just as much as you love her.”
“I know,” Griff said. “I know.”
Nic couldn’t be a hundred percent sure, but her gut instinct told her that she was finally back in the United States, somewhere in the northwest. Colorado or Montana or Idaho or Wyoming. The magnificent view she saw through the windows of her room all but screamed Rocky Mountains. She had accompanied Griff on a fishing trip to Montana the first year of their marriage and had marveled at the majestic beauty of the region. The Rocky Mountains were different from her beloved Smoky Mountains, but each was equally magnificent.
If she was right about her location, she couldn’t help wondering why York had brought her here. This was the United States of America, with laws to protect its citizens against people who trafficked in drugs and humans. Slavery had been abolished in this country a century and a half ago. But as a former FBI special agent, she knew that some of the darkest, most heinous crimes occurred in civilized countries. Criminals existed just below the radar, part of an underground society that protected its own.
Nic forced herself to sit in the comfy chair by the double windows overlooking a nearby mountain stream, the semi-barren mountains a backdrop to endless rows of evergreen trees. The day before yesterday, she had almost lost her baby. Only by the grace of God had the bleeding stopped, but she lived in fear that it might start again. She had to stay as calm as possible and take every available opportunity to rest. Controlling the restless need to pace back and forth in her rather comfortable cage, Nic concentrated on her breathing. Yoga deep breathing. Soothing. Peaceful.
Anthony Linden had accompanied her and Jonas on the trip here, but there had been no sign of York. The jet had landed in the early morning hours and they had been transferred to waiting SUVs. Linden had taken her with him and Jonas had been shoved into another vehicle. After their arrival at the sprawling, log cabin–style lodge set in the middle of the back-of-the-beyond, Linden had deposited her in a rustically upscale room on the second floor. By her calculations, that had been approximately two hours ago.
Since being locked away, she hadn’t bothered to explore her jail. She was tired and weak and frightened. She feared for her child’s life. She felt like screaming. But what good would that do? She needed to vent her frustration, to beat on the walls, to stomp her feet, to break out a window. But instead, she sat curled up in the big easy chair and stared out the window.
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