Torn (14 page)

“That
is
the news I—­”

“The perp kept her alive for three years, torturing her.”

Silence. Then, “Son of a fucking bitch.”

“And he's taken another woman . . .”

T
HE DOOR OPENED.
Light spilled into the little room where she'd been kept, but Melissa didn't move.

She was standing behind that door, her body frozen. She'd gotten free moments before, and now he was coming—­whoever the hell
he
was. The door inched open, so slowly, and soon she knew the light would spill on the cot. He'd see that she wasn't there.

I only have a moment. I have to act fast.

Her hands were linked together, forming one big fist. She had them lifted over her head. She was going to hit him as hard as she could. She would knock him down and run. Run fast and never look back.

“Melissa . . .” His voice was low, raspy. And . . . familiar?

She saw his back as he stepped into the room. Broad. Strong. The light hit his blond hair.

And the light also fell on the empty cot.

“
Melissa!”
he roared.

Betrayal burned through her, so painful and hard, tearing her apart. Not him.
Not him. Not him.
It was a terrible chant in her head because this couldn't be happening.

Yet . . . it was.

And he was starting to turn. Had she made a sound? A whimper of pain? A gasp of denial?

It didn't matter. She surged forward and slammed her hands into him as hard as she could. She hit his back with her fists and he fell forward, caught off guard by her attack.

There was a hard
thunk,
and she realized he'd hit his head on the edge of the cot. He was sprawled on the floor, and she didn't hesitate. She ran out the open doorway, her heart about to burst out of her chest. She had to get away.

Not him. Not him.

The terrible echo wouldn't stop in her mind. She raced through—­a house? Yes, it was a house, with sparse furnishings, heavy curtains. She stopped for a moment and spun around, trying to figure out which way to go. Where was the door? How did she get
out
? ”Melissa?”

He was calling for her. Coming after her.

“Help . . . you . . .”

No, he didn't want to help her. He just wanted to hurt her. Damn him. That was all he wanted.

To destroy her.

She found another door. Yanked it open, and fresh air hit her. She gasped, nearly choking on that air as she stood in the doorway. Her wrists burned. Had she broken one of them? Both? She didn't know. Maybe . . . she'd struggled so long and hard to get out of those ropes.

She ran forward, into the night. It was so dark. So terribly, terribly dark. No moon, no stars. No light at all. She was being swallowed right up by the darkness. But she had to keep going. Had to get away.

Before he found her.

And killed her.

CHAPTER EIGHT

V
ICTORIA'S PHONE RANG
, vibrating in her pocket. She yanked it out, her nerves on edge as Wade drove down the long dark interstate.

The screen lit up, and she frowned when she saw the words
Unknown Caller.
Not hesitating, she immediately answered—­and also immediately put the call on speaker. “Hello?”

Wade kept driving fast, not slowing at all.

“Hello?” Victoria repeated. “Who is this?”

“Trade.”

That low, rough rasp had her sucking in a sharp breath.
It was him.
And since they'd just left Lucas—­in the company of nearly a dozen cops—­this was solid proof that he wasn't the man who'd called her before.

The man who'd killed Kennedy.

“You're still offering a trade?” Victoria said carefully, but she knew fear had slipped into her voice. “I'm coming to Jekyll Island right now, I—­”

“You told the police.” A cold accusation.

Carefully, she responded, “I was at the station when you called me. I'm not now. I'm coming to Jekyll.”

But he laughed. Grating, rough laughter. And he said, “Don't worry. Someone else made the trade.”

Her heart stopped. “What? No!” Now her heart beat in a furious, triple-­time rhythm. “Who?”

“If he's there . . . she lives . . .”

He was making no sense to her and—­

“But he dies.”

“Who dies? Who? Tell me!” Her voice was nearly a scream and she tried to pull back the emotion, but it was too late. She was on edge and far too desperate.

Wade didn't speak, but she felt the acceleration of the SUV as he sped up.

“I'll tell you . . .” Now that rasp almost sounded like a caress. “But you have to tell me first . . . when did you know you were going to kill him?”

An icy sensation slid around her body. “I—­I don't know what you're talking about.”

“That isn't how the game works.” Now he was angry. Snarling. “Better luck next time.” He hung up. Just—­

When did you know you were going to kill him?

Her fingers fumbled as she called Dace. She wanted to tell him what had just happened and see if he could get some kind of trace going on that call—­or her damn phone.
If he calls again, maybe they can get him.
Her voice stuttered as she talked to him, and no matter how many times she cleared her throat, she couldn't get rid of the heavy lump that had lodged there.

He knows. He knows what I did.
But it should have been impossible. No one knew.

Because she'd been far better at covering her tracks than her father was.

“Victoria?”

She jumped at Wade's voice.

“We're going to be there soon,” he said. “Twenty more minutes and we'll be at Jekyll.”

“Melissa is there . . .”

“We're going to find her. Keep believing that. We will
find
her.”

“Who else would have made the trade?” Victoria asked. “Who else would do it?”

Wade didn't answer. Her fingers fisted in her lap and she stared straight at the road ahead of them.

M
ELISSA COULD HEAR
the sound of water, rough waves lapping at a shore. She stumbled out onto the beach, not realizing where she was until she felt the sand beneath her toes. Dark, so dark out there, she could barely see anything. No matter how many times she blinked, her eyes just couldn't seem to adjust to the darkness.

She rushed forward and slammed into something—­something hard and rough. A tree? It felt like one, so sturdy and big. Only there were no leaves on the tree. Her fumbling fingers ran over its surface. She'd hit the tree too hard because she'd been running as fast as she could.

Her side ached at the impact, and she took a moment, trying to desperately gulp in air. Then she heard  . . .

Footsteps? Yes, yes, that was the rustle of footsteps. Because there had been a section of earth before she'd stumbled onto the beach and the softness of the sand.

She slid down, kneeling in the sand as she crouched next to the old tree. She wanted to just put her hands up over her head, hide like a child, pretending that if she couldn't see, then the monster that was coming couldn't see her, either.

Why was this happening? Why had he done this to her?

She just wanted to get away. She began to crawl, moving silently in the sand, creeping along because she didn't want him to hear her.

The moments ticked past in silence. There was no other sound of footsteps. Had she imagined him before? Or—­Or had he gone off the rough path that she'd first been on and stumbled into the sand? When he walked on the sand, he wouldn't make a sound, and the waves were so rough, pounding hard and frantically against the beach. She couldn't hear anything but those waves.

The waves.

That was what she needed to do. She needed to get in the water. She was a good swimmer. She'd swim away. He wouldn't be able to get her if she could just reach the water.

So she stood. She turned toward the water—­that crashing of waves—­and ran toward the sound. The scent of the saltwater reached out to her, and she stumbled forward, fast and sloppy. But she didn't hit the water. Her feet sank in mud. Heavy, thick mud. She tried to trudge forward. The waves had to be there. She was close, surely—­

She fell. The heavy mud had tripped her and it seemed to be sucking her down. The waves were so close—­the water was close. She could feel the spray on her face.

But the mud held her captive. A sob escaped from her, burning her aching throat, and she crawled, so desperate to get forward. So desperate for freedom. Her hands were in front of her, sinking into that mud as she pulled herself, inch by inch, forward.

Inch by—­

Her grasping hands didn't touch the sand.

She touched—­a leg? Pants?

He's been here the whole time.

“No,” she said, a broken whisper.

A shadow seemed to loom over her. And she felt the prick of a knife slide under her neck. “Yes . . .”

The knife sliced deeper. Harder. Even if she'd still had her voice, there was never a chance to scream.

W
ADE'S FINGERS WERE
too tight around the steering wheel. He knew he needed to ease up, but the tension pouring through his body was unrelenting.

The bastard had called her again. The killer was fixating on Victoria, and Wade knew just how dangerous that fixation was.

“Where do we go?” Victoria asked, voice hushed. “Where do we start searching?”

They eased off the bridge that led to Jekyll Island. He knew the place well, having spent those summers here as a kid. The island was usually pretty empty, which would make it the perfect spot for the killer to use.

It's a pretty place. Everyone always thinks so.

But when I see it, I just remember death.

“Wade?” Victoria sounded worried. “Is everything okay?”

Not even fucking close.
But this wasn't the time to go into his nightmare of a past. He had a job to do on Jekyll. They'd do it and then get the hell out of there. He didn't want to face his ghosts, not then.

He wanted to find the girl. “Everything's fine.”
Lying to her feels wrong.

“Why is it so dark here?” Victoria leaned forward to peer through the windshield.

“Because of the turtles.” He remembered this from his youth. “Nesting season. They keep the lights off or dimmed on the island so the turtles can follow the moonlight to the beach.” His brother Adam had loved those damn turtles. Every year that they came to the island, Adam had volunteered, helping out with them. But that had been Adam—­good, kind.

Such a waste. I miss the hell out of him.

“There isn't any moonlight tonight.”

No, there wasn't any light at all. During their drive, they'd passed through a rough storm, and though the rain was gone now, heavy clouds still blocked the night sky.

Wade's phone rang then, and he tensed at the sound. Freaking phone calls were starting to drive him mad. His phone was connected through the car's speakers via Bluetooth, so he just hit the button near the steering wheel to take the call. “Monroe.”

“W-­Wade?” a hesitant voice asked. A voice that he knew.

“Jim.” Good. Relief swept through him. “Jim, we've got news on Melissa. We think she's alive and on—­”

“Jekyll Island.”

Wade pulled the SUV to the side of the road. “What?”

“H-­He told me to come to Jekyll Island. Gave me the address. Said to come alone.” Jim's words were tumbling out, too fast. “My life for hers. Of course, I'd make the trade.”

“Oh, my God,” Victoria whispered.

The perp is going to kill Jim.
“Where are you?” Wade demanded. “Give me a specific address,
now.
”

“She's not here.” Jim sounded confused. “I—­I think she was . . . but she's not here now. Where is she?”

“Look, I want you to get in your car. Lock your doors. Got it? The bastard is out here, and he's hunting.”

Jim didn't speak. His ragged breath carried easily over the Bluetooth connection.

“An address!” Victoria cried out. “Tell us where you are! We can come to you!”

Jim mumbled an address, then said, “Cottage . . . at the end of the road. All alone. Almost didn't see it. Trees were so thick. Climbing all over it . . .”

“Get the hell back in your car,” Wade ordered. “Right now, do you hear me?”

“I—­I need to find Melissa.”

“He's
there,”
Wade snarled. “He will kill you.” How much clearer could he be? “Get in your car. Get the hell in and lock the doors, do you understand me? Better yet, get the fuck out of there. Come meet me at the bridge or—­”

“I won't leave this place!” Now Jim was angry. “She's here! I know she's here! I won't leave her!”

“Then just get your ass in that car! Lock the doors. Stay there until you see me!”

There was a rush of footsteps in the background, and then the line went dead. Wade immediately plugged the address into his GPS.
Opposite side of the damn island.
Figured. He just needed Jim to stay alive until he got there.

Then he heard Victoria on her phone, updating Dace on what was happening. He already knew Dace was trying to coordinate with the local authorities and get a search team out to the Island.

Jim made the trade.
The kid should have called him first. He should have told him what the hell he was planning and not gone off on his own.

Wade drove down the bay side of the island, his gaze straining to see in the darkness. He knew the old Jekyll Island Club Hotel was nearby. Once upon a time the island had been a hunting getaway for the rich and famous. Rockefeller. Pulitzer. The big names had all spent time there. Back in the day, it had been their perfect place to hunt.

Now he's hunting here.
A killer who liked to play games.

Wade headed past the historic district on the island then went farther. Past the remains of an old house, one that he'd been told was haunted when he was thirteen. He'd even been dared to spend the night out there.

He'd always taken up dares. Adam hadn't. Adam hadn't cared about dares. But his brother stayed with him that night . . .

To make sure I was safe.

Wade hadn't realized how much this fucking island would haunt him. Why the hell had the killer picked this spot?

He rounded the curve and started heading toward the Atlantic side of the island. His GPS told him to turn, and he headed down a snake-­sized road. Down, down . . .

His headlights cut through that pitch-­black darkness. The beam hit a battered-­looking truck parked on the edge of the pavement. He saw the silhouette of a man in the truck.

Wade killed the SUV's engine, but before jumping out, he took his gun from the glove box. He had a concealed carry permit in Georgia, and the way this killer was jerking them all around—­hell, no, he wasn't about to rush out unarmed.

When he and Victoria hurried out of the SUV, he made sure to stay in front of her. Victoria didn't like guns. They'd talked about that—­once, a lifetime ago. She never carried a weapon that he knew of, and Wade thought that was some dangerous shit. Considering the way their cases had gone lately, the woman definitely needed to be armed if she was going to work in the field.

When he approached the truck, Jim shoved open the door. Then he climbed out, staggering a bit. Victoria hurried toward him and wrapped her arms around his torso to steady him. “What happened to you?”

“Melissa . . . I—­I think it was her. I went to get her out. He'd said she was locked inside . . .”

Wade looked over at the old cottage. He could see light glowing from the interior.

“But when I got in there, the back room . . . there were ropes and blood.”

Hell.

“No Melissa.” Jim's voice was hoarse. “An empty cot. That blood. Not her. Then . . . then someone hit me from behind. I went down, hit something . . . and I—­I thought I saw her running away.” His words were heavy with confusion. “I think . . . maybe she was hiding behind the door?” Jim shook his head. “Why would she hide from me?”

Wade's fingers were curled around the gun. The weight of the weapon was a familiar comfort in his hand. “We're going inside.” He wanted to search the place and figure out what the hell had happened. But he was determined that they would go in together. Until backup arrived, their little group would be going everywhere together. There would be no Scooby-­Doo separating shit, not until he knew just where the killer was.

Not with his fixation on Victoria. I'm not leaving her until I know she is safe.