Their Summer Heat (19 page)

Summer expelled the held breath when she realized the killer had blurred out her name.

“He claims he wrote these messages with each victim’s blood after he killed them. We haven’t been able to discern the word that’s missing in some of these shots. He also states he killed these women because they were snobs and a few more adjectives we can’t quote on the air. We’ve contacted the FBI for comment, but they haven’t returned our calls.”

“And they won’t,” muttered Wallace.

“As you know, eleven women from New York’s society have been murdered in the past week. Nine of those eleven women were auctioned at the Bergeron Cancer gala. The FBI has provided limited information, but eyewitnesses verified the bodies were mutilated, something the man who has identified himself as the killer has confirmed.”

As the profile states, he wants the attention.

“The email we received claims another woman will die tonight and every night until they are all gone. We have yet to determine how many constitutes
all gone.
We hope the man will answer that question for us. He has also promised us another picture tomorrow morning.”

Wallace turned off the TV and went back to his keyboard. Summer fought with herself about what to say to the lunatic on the other end. “Why did you blur out my name?”

“Out of respect for you. I’m sure you don’t want the press following you around.”

“Thanks. Why don’t you skip killin’ the rest of the ladies and come get me? I don’t think you can get to me, so I’ll come to you.”

Wallace stood, cursed and grabbed at her phone, but she spun away.

“Oh, I can get to you anytime, sweetheart, it’s just not time yet. I want the other sluts to know fear. They know who they are.”

Eight more days? There must me something she could do to stop them. “Listen, you bastard, I am not your sweetheart. I actually hate you!” She ended the call and looked at Wallace. “Did I do the right thing by hangin’ up on him?”

“I don’t think it matters. You tried to reason with him, and he ignored you. He’s hell bent on killing.”

“Yes. That’s what I’m thinkin’.” When her cell rang again and she didn’t recognize the number, she dismissed the call. After five rings, it went to voice mail. When the dang thing rang again, she hit a button, putting the ringer on silent mode.

“When is Agent Benson comin’ by?” she asked.

“He’ll be here anytime.”

“Good. I need to understand how the last girl died.” She moved to the board and peered at the latest victim. “How did he get to her?”

Wallace shook his head as his cell beeped. He read the message. “Benson is on his way up.”

“Where are the rest of your guys?”

“Several are on duty, and the others are napping at a hotel.”

“And when do you sleep?”

He smiled. “I get enough.”

“Hmm. I don’t believe you.”

Dan shrugged and headed for the front door. Summer remained rooted in her spot. She had an idea, but she needed the FBI’s help.

When the agent stepped into the room, she skipped the pleasantries and said, “How did the eleventh victim die?”

“The bastard tranquilized all the agents at her home.”

“How many agents?”

“Six. We’ve sent all the remaining women on road trips with ten agents each. I guarantee he won’t kill another one.”

“How did he administer the tranq?” asked Wallace.

“Some he shot from a distance and some he administered up close.”

“Thank God he didn’t kill any of the agents,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am. That’s the only good thing about it.”

Summer could read the torment in the agent’s eyes. The murdering bastard made the FBI look like fools. She stared at the board while Wallace explained the emails and the phone call.

“Do you think there’s more than one of him?” she asked.

Benson shrugged. “We have zero info on this guy. I mean, you were bait, and he didn’t attempt to get to you. He’s methodic, sticks to his game plan. He’ll go down in history as the most elusive serial killer yet.”

“Lord, don’t let him hear that.”

“Let’s hope we kill him in a gunfight,” said Benson.

“Yes,” she said. “Let’s hope.” And she did hope the bastard died. She shouldn’t feel such hatred, but she did.

“So, you’re acquainted with him?” asked the FBI agent.

“Accordin’ to him, I am.”

“And he loves you?” asked Benson.

“That’s what he said. I’ve never been in love, and nobody has ever loved me besides my parents. I don’t understand how I could be so cursed.” Did she love the Prestons? She certainly did miss them.

“You’re not cursed,” said Wallace. “You’re intelligent and beautiful. He wouldn’t have fallen in love with a hag.”

Wallace was right. This madman genuinely thought himself in love with her. In her head, she ran through a list of her unusual customers at the diner but most were older and didn’t come across as brilliant enough to pull this off. She actually knew the names of a few guys at college, but none of them had given her the time of day, which was fine with her. “Do you want me to check my voice mail? I refused to answer it after I hung up on him.”

“Yes,” both men said.

The killer didn’t leave a message, but the phone rang again with the strange number. “Should I answer it?”

“Only if you want to,” answered Benson.

She shook her head. “I’m makin’ coffee. You two want some?”

They both nodded, and she fled, unable to stand the pity in their eyes. After making coffee, she found a tray and carried two cups into the war room. She left their beverages on the table and went back to the kitchen to keep an eye on the elevator.

Twenty minutes later, she sighed in relief when Benson headed for the door without Wallace. “Agent Benson, I have a favor to ask.”

As Max opened the door to his apartment, anticipation hummed through him like a buzz saw. Unfortunately, it was after seven. His attempt to leave at five was thwarted by one thing after another that couldn’t wait until tomorrow. He had been distracted all day with thoughts of Summer. Resisting calling out her name, he practically ran to the living room, only to come to a disappointed stop when he found she wasn’t there. In the kitchen, he snagged a beer on his way to the bedroom. If he were lucky, she was reclining on the bed in something sexy.

Downing half the bottle, he pushed the door open with this foot. The room was empty. He checked the bathroom—empty too. Max frowned. She was probably in that damn war room. He planned to inform Logan the shit had to go. Material like that didn’t belong in a home.

Max’s belly growled, and he couldn’t wait to kiss Summer then feast on Mrs. Mattie’s delicious cooking, then take Summer to bed. Evenings were something he looked forward to.

He ambled into the war room but drew to a halt when he saw Logan and Wallace. One look at their faces sent chills down Max’s spine.

“What?” he asked.

“Summer’s gone,” said Logan.

Max’s vision narrowed. He blinked. “What? How?”

Logan handed him a piece of paper.

Dearest Max and Logan,

I’ve decided the best thing I can do is leave. Don’t worry about me; I’m in Witness Protection, thanks to Agent Benson. I’m hoping the killer will not murder any more ladies, but will instead use his energy finding me.

Please don’t bother Agent Benson about my whereabouts. It was my idea, and it took a lot to persuade him to go through with it.

I know you’re feeling angry, betrayed, maybe even sad. Please don’t be angry with me. This is the only way I could save everyone, including you two.

I want you to know I love you, both of you. I don’t know if someone can fall in love in such a short time, but I’ve missed you both so much today, it actually hurt, physically.

Please take care of yourselves.

Love,

Summer

There was a dry water spot on the page. A splash from a tear.

Max grabbed his hair and paced. He couldn’t believe it. She just up and left? How could she do this?

“I’ve called Benson but got his voice mail,” said Wallace.

Max spun and approached Wallace. “How did this happen?”

“It was totally my fault. She walked out the door with Benson when he left this morning. Because we don’t have cameras in the apartment, I didn’t know she had left until Logan came home and found the note in the bedroom.”

She’d been gone for hours? Max stormed away to avoid hitting the man. Wallace’s purpose was to protect her, keep her safe and no one could do that if she wasn’t here.

“I pulled surveillance, and when she reached the street, she turned right and disappeared into the crowd, and Benson took a left. I figured they split in the lobby, and then Benson circled back to pick her up.” Wallace glanced at a monitor. “Benson is here.” Wallace excused himself to let in the agent.

Max planted his ass in a chair, hoping to avoid attacking a federal agent outright.

Agent Benson entered the room, looking as stressed out and shitty as the rest of them did.

“You want to tell me how you could go along with this stupid scheme?” asked Logan.

“You know as well as I do it’s not stupid, and there’s something else you don’t realize. Summer’s not a person who can handle these kills committed in her name. She puts on a good front, but she can’t stand by and let this continue. She has a tender heart. I’m surprised she hasn’t sacrificed herself just to stop this madness, and when she said she wanted to go into hiding, I jumped at the offer, because the alternative is her giving herself to the bastard. She hopes the killer will focus on finding her and not working on his list, and I think it’s a terrific idea.”

Max had never considered the emotional aspect of the situation. Benson was correct. This had to be eating Summer alive inside. She wasn’t running from the killer; she’d only fled to protect the remaining women.

“There’s no guarantee it will work,” said Logan.

“I agree,” said Benson. “But it might. What we have to do is keep you two alive.”

“Oh,” said Max. “We’re the bait now?”

“No. We still work this case. You two still go to work, but we’re wrapping you in Bubble Wrap. I promised Miss Heat I’d keep you breathing, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

His statement didn’t make Max feel better. So far, the FBI hadn’t been able to protect the ladies. Not that he was afraid of dying, but right now, his goal was to stay alive so he could see Summer again.

“How do you know she’s safe? This killer seems to be technologically proficient,” asked Logan. “Hell, he could capture you and make you tell him where she’s stashed.”

“He could capture me, but I can’t tell him where she is, because I don’t know. I handed her to the Marshal Service and specifically told them not to put her in the database, just in case the killer decided to hack their system. They agreed, so there’s no paper trail. She left her phone. When the bastard calls, one of you needs to answer and demand to know what he’s done with her. Offer him money, something. We need him to focus on finding her, not continuing down his list.”

Max rubbed his forehead, trying to push away the tension. In his mind, the plan had merit; in his heart, well, his heart was breaking.

“So, we can’t see her?” asked Logan.

Benson shook his head. “Not until the killer’s caught or Miss Heat decides to come home.”

Home. The little word caused Max’s heart to hurt. Max knew Summer wouldn’t come back unless she was forced to, so it was up to him and Logan not to get caught.

Max would kill himself before he’d let the bastard use him.

* * * * *

Summer said goodbye to the marshal and closed the door, the sound giving her a sense of unsettling finality. The past five weeks had been a blur, and now she stood inside her new home. To normal people, it would be cute, but she didn’t see it that way. She saw loneliness.

She felt the crushing weight of despair.

The dark emotion threatened to suffocate her, pull her into a black hole she wasn’t sure she could escape. Depression’s icy grip held her soul.

Moving deeper into her cottage, she ended up in the kitchen and brewed a pot of coffee while she put up the few groceries they had hastily picked up. Since she’d walked out of Max’s apartment, a cold like she’d never known had invaded her body. The thick sweatpants and sweatshirt weren’t enough to ease the chill. Only two hard, warm bodies could thaw her out.

Summer gazed out the window at the secluded ridge overlooking the beautiful Appalachian Mountains in Kentucky. She’d never been to the mountains, and she certainly never thought she’d see them and be on the run at the same time.

This was the third safe house. She would only hide out here a week or two at
the most, and then it was on to the next.

Summer’s new name was Mary Catherine Jennings, and her hair was black as night. They encouraged her to cut it off real short, but she settled for shoulder length. She had to have a ponytail, had never been without one.

When the serial killer couldn’t find the remaining ladies, he’d been furious, providing the news media with daily emails about killing every woman in the city
after
he killed all the society bitches.

His promise didn’t last long. When he couldn’t find his targets, he’d murdered one random New York female per week.

God, would this nightmare ever end.

She watched the drip, drip, drip of the coffee. Tomorrow, she would drive her used VW Bug into town and buy enough groceries for a couple of weeks. She wouldn’t engage in conversation, but if someone asked what she did for a job, she would respond that she was a writer seeking solitude to finish a book. Lying wasn’t her best skill, but she’d give it a shot.

After pulling on a coat they’d picked up at Target, she poured herself a cup of coffee, doused it with sugar and some packaged creamer she’d found stuck in the back of a drawer, and then escaped to the back porch. The site of two weathered rocking chairs made her lower lip quiver.

There should be three chairs…there should be three.

Would Logan and Max like it here? Probably for all of two seconds. They never did slow, and the city had so much to offer.