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Authors: Jordyn Redwood

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BOOK: Peril
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As always, I do a lot of nonfiction research for my novels and I want to acknowledge those books that played a part in crafting this tale. These books are thought-provoking examples of the possibility of the medical mystery in
Peril
, and I recommend reading them before deciding against the plausibility of the theory.
Mind Wars: Brain Research and National Defense
by Jonathan D. Moreno;
Gianna: Aborted, and Lived to Tell About It
by Jessica Shaver Renshaw;
The Heart's Code
by Paul Pearsall;
The Woman Who Can't Forget
by Jill Price with Bart Davis; and
Unplanned
by Abby Johnson with Cindy Lambert.

To my technical experts: Deputy Sheriff K. Mai for overall police knowledge and Detective S. Tarr for the SWAT scenario. Thank you for your service to our communities.

To my amazing editors: Susan Lohrer, Mike Nappa, and Dawn Anderson. Thank you for the time you've taken in teaching me to be a better author.

To the marketing team at Kregel: Dave Hill, Noelle Pedersen, Adam Ferguson, and Cat Hoort. I appreciate all your work on my behalf, getting word out about the Bloodline Trilogy. Nick Richardson—I get so many compliments on the book covers! Thanks for your creativity.

To my readers: You are the ones who make this journey truly worthwhile. I am honored to write and share stories with you.

Prologue

H
E WAITED AT THE EDGE
of the trail for her to pass, hidden in the gap where the underbrush transitioned to a mixed grove of lush aspen and skeletal Rocky Mountain lodgepoles scourged by tiny black insects.

Actually, he considered himself a kindred brother to the scourging pine beetle. Amazing little creatures. It impressed him how something so tiny could topple a stalwart of the forest—something more colossal than it could ever hope to grow. In order to reproduce, the beetle laid its eggs under the bark. When the eggs hatched, the larvae cut off the tree's circulation, consuming it for growth, and severing the life force of the specimen. This life cycle of the beetle served as executioner for the tree.

It mimicked his preferred method of killing.

He smoothed his fingers lightly over his upper arms, tracing the faces of those gone before. Usually, he kept his tiny charges tucked under long sleeves—like children with their heads plunged under bed linens to hide from the boogeyman—safe and protected under his clothing. Why take a trophy when you could have an image of the prize forever imprinted onto your body? Besides, he liked the vibrant color of the ink against the paleness of skin. And the pink burn from sitting days under the sun tracking her added to the sense of hell he had wrought upon their lives.

He eyed the vacant, hairless patch where her picture would be injected. Not one previous victim had shared his own characteristics of blond-tipped brown hair and brown eyes.

Until today.

His first tattoo had been a gift to him from a local citizen in a land of unrelenting heat, sand, and wind who thought if he curried favor with a foreign military force it would ensure his freedom. The idea of offering such a beautiful image for hope of liberty stirred something deep inside him. Why give away something tangible to get something intangible? Was the idea of freedom, even in light of certain chaotic governmental transition, of greater value than the safety of the status quo?

Being unhindered.

Wasn't he offering the same with death? Wasn't freeing the spirit from its physical entrapment the ultimate gift?

Yes—he was that generous.

Another perk of his killing—relishing the aftermath of the terror he created. Better than the act was seeing the tearstained faces of relatives as they cried for their children to be found. Television anchors didn't understand how much he cherished these moments and how they were one reason he continued on . . . to have many more of the mindless masses watch.

His ears perked at the soft tapping of running shoes against the path. Routine was every hunter's gift, and she was always generous. She was just rounding the bend, jogging steadily, earbuds in place, hands pulsing down to the beat of the music.

The air was heavy, full of the promise of rain and the odor of recently discharged
eau de skunk
. Even though he sat in the thick of it, right next to a fly-swarmed rabbit carcass, he was comfortable with the cover the stench provided.

One thing he had yet to discover was how his prey sensed it was about to meet the monster it feared lived under its bed. The very shadow that pulled parents from their slumber, groping for flashlights to assuage the blown-up, neuron-fired night creature of their child's imagination.

The world was a dark place. If only parents were smart enough to share what they knew and were constantly reminded of on the news every evening. That going to a movie at midnight could hold just as much risk as going to school, as eating at a pizza parlor, as running alone down a woodland trail. That men waited to hunt young girls who chose this form of enjoyment, by themselves, assured that nothing bad would ever happen to them.

Pride.

Relying on one's self was always the last nail in the coffin. Pride fueled a false sense of security. It ran against nature's design where things worked better in unison.

Where relationship protected against imprisonment of the spirit.

As his prey grew closer, her body betrayed her subconscious instinct that his sitting amongst the fragrant smell of decay did little to cover the scent of murderous lust that leeched from his pores. Mere feet from his position she stopped cold in the middle of the trail and looked around.
She drew her hand up and plucked out one of the earbuds. The tinny sound of music raced through the cool air. A country tune to encourage her feet to keep moving.

Something on the other side of the trail caught her eye, and he followed her gaze to a rabbit racing back into the bushes. Her chest rose as she inhaled deeply; fingering the earpiece back in place, she restarted her pace.

Like a sprinter at the starter's gun, he bolted from his position.

He tackled her, linebacker-style, pushing her into the underbrush on the other side of the trail. The only noises were her breath as it exploded from her chest and the rustle of trees that sounded more like two small animals fighting than a girl about to lose her life.

It always surprised him how little they fought. Purposefully, he rolled her over the ground a few times then stopped, his body pinning hers, his hand clamped tight over her mouth. Wide, pale brown eyes met his. Torn grass and leaves clung to wisps of dark brown hair with blond highlights. She shook her head to communicate what her lips could not and began to pound her fists against his arms. Pink, manicured nails slithered up under his dog tags, grabbed them, and snapped the chain in two as she yanked them off.

Have to remember to find those when I'm done.

He repositioned his body so her arms were trapped by his knees, which freed up his other hand to place his index fingers over his lips.

Her forehead scrunched. The unspoken promise of his mannerism increased the doubt in her eyes. The finger from his lips dropped to her neck, and he felt her pulse race unfettered under his fingers at her carotid artery. With his thumb, he found the echo of it on the other side.

Many did not understand how the act of strangulation killed. It was never about the airway but about choking off the blood supply to the brain. Just as the pine beetle larvae suffocated and starved the tree by consuming the very thing that ensured its life.

He grew lightheaded as he pressed his hand tight over her neck, the muscles in his arms bulging as they contracted under his desire. If he could apply even, tight pressure for just a few minutes, she would pass out, and the remainder of his liberating acts could be realized. Like a cat toying with a hatchling fallen from a tree.

His prey began to buck and twist her pelvis in an attempt to throw him
off, but his weight surpassed hers by over one hundred pounds, and he merely smiled as the increased exertion would hasten what he ultimately planned.

She screamed through muffled lips and attempted to bare her teeth under his fingers.

He squeezed harder, pushing the mass of his upper body into the hold.

Her eyelids fluttered as her body attempted any maneuver to stay the coming darkness. Slowly, her tense muscles grew lax and her hands flopped into the dry pine needles.

He waited until her breath slowed and then stopped. This phase took several more minutes. As he released her neck from his grip, his peripheral vision caught something on the trail.

His leather wallet lay in the middle of the path like a beacon of light to any law enforcement officer who discovered the body. He would have left it where it was until he finished had he not heard voices and footfalls coming up the path. He could see their faces over his shoulder as they came around the curve.

Pushing himself off the body, he raced back over the trail and grabbed the wallet mid-stride before crashing through the brush on the other side. Just as he feared, the voices stopped. Then they began to question one another.

“Did you hear that?”
An older male
.

“You don't think it was a bear, do you?”

A scared, younger female
.
A possible next victim?

He shook his head against the urgency for killing that filled his mind. He turned and kneeled in the grass.

“I doubt it.”

“You know there was just a sighting not far from here.”

“Don't worry.” A faint pat of flesh against something solid. “You know I always come prepared.”

“I don't know if it's wise for the group of Boy Scouts just behind us to see you carrying a weapon.”

Great. An armed, concerned male and a peace-loving, griping female.

Exactly one of the reasons he enjoyed his hobby. Definitely not something that would work in his favor. He was ready to get up and hightail it out of there when he saw his victim's pale hand stretched from the underbrush. He hadn't rolled her far enough, and the ashen extremity was easily
seen against the dark green and brown of the forest floor. On the path, something had slipped from his wallet. A piece of paper. For the first time in a long time, he felt dread course through his veins.

Quickly, he flipped open the worn black leather. The essentials were present. Driver's license. Credit cards.

Was it something that could identify him?

As he backed farther into the trees, his vision obscured, his worst fear realized.

“Hey, what's that?” the woman asked.

“What?” her male companion answered.

“Don't you see it?”

“That's not a hand . . . is it?”

Quickened footfalls.

“Is she alive?”

He quietly turned and walked away.

“She's warm. I'm starting CPR. Call 911.”

And he heard the rustle of her body being dragged from its cover.

Chapter 1

Morning, Monday, June 11

T
HE
ER
CREW BURST INTO
the pediatric intensive care unit like a Civil War battalion trying to crash through enemy lines.

One nurse was on the gurney giving compressions. Two others propelled the bed while trying to maintain the upright position of IV poles that resembled a mechanical Christmas tree of syringe pumps pushing lifesaving medications into the patient.

Morgan Adams stood from her chair at the nurses' station and motioned to Eric Gregory, one of her coworkers. “Clear out bedspace six.”

Why is it the one day I need to leave work early the PICU falls apart like a sand castle crushed under the rising tide?

They'd been alerted that this admission was coming. What they hadn't been expecting was that the fourteen-year-old girl would be coding when she entered the unit. It was too difficult to move a patient during a code onto the bed that awaited her. Better to shove the ER gurney into an empty space and continue what needed to be done to save the girl's life.

In the wake of the ER crew, there appeared to be a police detective, accompanied by a uniformed officer.

Definitely not getting off work early today.

Morgan turned to Lucy, another of her nursing cohorts. She was a woman whose skin tone was just a shade lighter than her dark brown eyes, and whose Jamaican accent worked like intravenous valium to scared children.

“Lucy,” she said, “page Dr. Ayer. Eric—”

“I know.” Eric said. “The code cart.”

Morgan neared the patient as the ER gurney braked in position. “What happened?”

An ER nurse dressed in navy blue scrubs eyed her. “Her heart rate dropped into the twenties on the elevator.”

Morgan slid two fingers under the C-collar to the young girl's neck to see if she could feel the carotid pulse. The open windows of the plastic revealed blotchy, angry patches of red and blue on each side of the neck.

BOOK: Peril
2.92Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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