Torn (15 page)

Victoria kept her arm around Jim as they climbed the front steps that led to the old house. The door was unlocked, hanging open a bit. Wade opened it more with the tip of his weapon. “Don't touch anything,” he whispered. The warning was for Jim, not Victoria. She knew better than to contaminate a crime scene.

He inched forward, studying the place. Light blazed, but he wondered if Jim had turned the light on when he rushed inside, running to Melissa's rescue. The place had the heavy closed odor that told him it probably hadn't been used in a long time.

Two years? Did you use this place before, when you kept Kennedy hidden away?

The furniture was dusty, another sign that no one had been using the house in a while. He walked down the tight hallway, the old wood squeaking beneath his feet. He pushed open the first door on the right, needing to do a thorough sweep and make certain the house was empty.

This room was empty. No furniture. Nothing in it at all.

No clothes in the closet. No toiletries in the bathroom.

He eased out. Victoria and Jim were right behind him. “There . . .” Jim pointed down the hallway. Wade noticed the blood dripping from a gash on Jim's forehead. “I went in . . . there . . .”

The door Jim indicated was partially open. As Wade continued down the narrow hallway, he was aware of a cold tension in his body. Battle-­ready tension. He'd felt this way before, right before confronting perps when he'd been a detective with the Atlanta PD. He knew scenes could go to hell in a heartbeat. There had been times—­times he didn't like to remember but could never really forget—­when he was forced to pull the trigger. In order to defend himself, his partner, and even to protect other victims, he'd had to shoot.

He'd done what was necessary. Hadn't hesitated.

And he wouldn't hesitate now.

As he approached the room, his footsteps slowed. He could see what looked like a narrow cot. Thick rope had been tossed on it, the ends still tied to metal pipes that seemed to come straight from the walls. And Jim had been right. There was blood in there. Blood near the top of the mattress, where a person's head would be. Blood near the bottom ropes.

You tied her here, didn't you?

“That's not enough blood for a mortal wound,” Victoria said, voice hushed.

He'd figured the same thing. He leaned over the cot, careful not to touch anything there. “There's a lot of blood on the rope.” And he knew what Melissa had done. “She got loose.”

“Where is she?” Jim asked. “Why did she run?”

“Probably because she's scared out of her mind.” He turned back toward Jim and Victoria. The house was empty. No killer. No victim. “We have to start a search of the island.” Because Melissa could be out there, running blind or . . .

She could be out there, and the killer could be hunting her.

Victoria nodded as she gazed at Wade. “Every inch,” she agreed.

Melissa needed them, and every moment was important. The problem? Getting a team organized and getting the hell out there. Each second that passed without a search was too much of a waste. Dace and his cop buddies were rushing in, but how long would it take them to mobilize there?

Wade hurried back outside, with Victoria and Jim close by. Victoria made Jim sit on the steps while she examined his wound.

“How'd you get the gash?” she asked him.

“I—­I fell forward when she hit me. Must have . . . slammed into the floor. Or the cot. Something . . .”

Wade paced the scene, trying to imagine where Melissa would go. She would have been terrified when she went outside. So desperate.

It would have been pitch-­black out there . . .

He stilled, listening. He could just make out the roar of the surf. That roar meant . . . waves. The beach. In Melissa's desperate mind, had that roar equaled some kind of safety?
If you couldn't see anything, then maybe you'd run toward what you could hear.

He wanted to run toward that sound, searching for her, but . . .

Victoria.

He didn't know where the killer was. He
did
know that the guy was already too fixated on her.
Can't leave my partner on her own.

Then he saw the flash of lights rounding the corner. Local cops, coming to help on the scene. Hell, yes.

Victoria would be safe. He could hunt.

“Talk to them,” he ordered her as the cars drew closer. “Get the search going.” She knew how to organize a search task force—­at LOST, that was day fucking one material.

Victoria grabbed his arm. “Where are you going?”

The pounding of the surf called to him like a lifeline, the way he thought it might have called to Melissa. “The water. I'm going to the beach. Starting the search there. Get boots on the ground, Viki. Get her help! Call in the K-9 unit!” They needed every single asset they could get on this case.

And they didn't have time to waste. Because Melissa was running out there, desperate, and the perp could be, too.

“I
—­I TRIED TO
find her,” Jim confessed, anguish heavy in his words. “I wanted to help her.”

The local authorities had swarmed the scene. Unfortunately, Dace hadn't been with them. It had taken far too much time to organize the local authorities. They'd wanted to focus on the house, on collecting evidence, when Victoria kept telling them that the missing woman was
out there. Focus on the island—­start looking for her!

No wonder Wade had run when he saw the cop cars. He'd known that the scene was safe with the authorities so close by, and she realized he hadn't wanted to be slowed down by a million and one questions. He'd wanted to search.

So he'd left her with the million and one questions.

But the men and women there . . . they meant well. They were just in far, far over their heads.

“Never had something like this happened here,” one of the guys said.

Victoria thought he had come over from the mainland. He seemed so hesitant as he stood next to the patrol car.

“You really think some guy . . . he's been torturing women out here?”

“It wouldn't be the first time a killer has used an island,” she said. Her mind drifted back to the Lady Killer case and the victims she'd found on Dauphin Island. “Sometimes, the proximity to the ocean and the seclusion—­they work to a killer's advantage.” Especially when it came to body disposal. Talk about easy. Just jump on a boat, weigh down your victim, and drive away . . .

But Kennedy's body wasn't dumped in the water. She was buried.

Buried . . . and Victoria had found Spanish moss in that black bag with her.

Her gaze darted around the scene. Heavy trees twisted and turned around the little house—­trees that were all weighed down by Spanish moss that blew in the breeze. Thanks to the cop cars, the scene had been illuminated enough for her to easily see the moss.

Did you bury Kennedy here? Instead of sending her out to the ocean?

Maybe the killer had wanted to keep her close.

Maybe he hadn't been able to let go . . .

Not until he took someone else.

“We can have a K-9 unit here in an hour!” a woman called out.

An hour . . . that wasn't going to cut it.

Victoria's gaze tracked back to the darkness. She hadn't seen Wade since he'd run off. Where was he? He needed backup.

I'm his backup. I'm his partner. I should be out there with him.

Jim was in the back of an ambulance. An EMT was treating him, examining the heavy gash on his head. He was safe. She'd talked to the cops in charge. Given them as much information as she had. Now she was just standing there, playing a waiting game, while Wade was out there, alone.

Every instinct she possessed screamed for her to go after him.

“Captain!” She grabbed the arm of the man who was leading that group. “We need to start that search!”

“My men are almost ready to go, ma'am. We'll start a full-­island sweep, heading to Driftwood Beach and combing from the north end of the island on down.” He gave her a brisk nod. “We've got this, ma'am. We will find her.”

She wanted to have his confidence.

Her head tilted back and she glanced up at the night sky. The heavy clouds that had covered the island were starting to pass. She could see the glitter of stars and almost make out the glow of the moon. If they could get just a little more light, it would help the search so much.

“You coming with us?” the captain asked.

As if she would be left behind. “Let's do this.”
Please, Melissa. Just hold on. We're coming.

T
REES WERE TOSSED
onto the beach, stripped of leaves, battered by the waves and shaped by the tide.

Wade knew exactly where he was—­Driftwood Beach. A place that had been whispered about so much when he was thirteen. A beach of ghosts.

The trees were scattered all over that long stretch of beach. Getting through them was like navigating a maze. But the moonlight and starlight had finally started to spill onto him, and he could see better as he made his way through the obstacles.

“Melissa!” He yelled her name as he headed down the beach. He'd been calling out to her, again and again, during his search, but she hadn't called back to him.

Maybe he was in the wrong place. Maybe she'd gone south. Or, hell, maybe she'd even gone into the water, so desperate to get away from her abductor.

For an instant Wade stilled. His gaze turned to the ocean and those rushing waves.

Jekyll Island.
He really hadn't wanted to come back to this fucking place. It held too many memories for him. Mostly bad ones.

The water . . . it taught me about loss.

He fucking hated boats and water now. Hated them.

If Melissa had gone into the water, they'd have to get the Coast Guard out there, ASAP. She could be weak, confused, and the waves out there were already rough because of the storm that had come through earlier. If she wasn't careful, the water would take her away.

Just as it took my brother.

“Melissa!” Wade shouted again. “I'm here to help you!” He continued moving deeper down the beach. The driftwood trees were slanted, left and right, across the sand. He climbed over one. “I'm with a group called LOST! The cops are here, too! It's time to go home!”

He stepped forward. Maneuvered past more driftwood and—­

There was a faint sound behind him. A rasp. Could have been nothing. A crab moving across the sand. But . . .

He swung back around with his weapon drawn.

That was when he saw her.

Her arms were tied to the driftwood. One anchored on her left side, one on her right. Her head sagged forward and she was on her knees, all but hidden behind a massive tree.

Fuck.
He rushed toward her, dropping to his knees in the sand. He put the gun down beside him when he reached to touch her chin. “Melissa? Melissa, it's all right . . .”

But it wasn't.

He tipped back her head, and her hair—­hair that had been cropped to barely hit her jaw—­slid away from her face. Even in the faint moonlight, he could see the blood that covered her—­blood that poured from her neck. Wade realized that she hadn't been able to call out for help because that bastard had sliced her throat.

A faint rasp came from her, a rough gurgle—­probably the only sound she could make right then. But it told him that she was still alive.

Not too late. Not—­

He grabbed at the ropes holding her and wrenched the one at her right wrist free. He could feel her blood there, too. Blood that just seemed to surround her whole wrist.

“It's going to be all right,” he told her. “You're safe now. I won't let anyone hurt you.”

She made that pitiful, painful rasp again.

“No, don't try to talk. It's okay.” Talking was the last thing she needed to try doing at that moment. “Save your strength.” He put his hand on her throat, trying to stem that terrible blood flow. He could feel the blood seeping through his fingers.
A fresh wound.
The killer had been close—­no doubt was
still
close. They needed backup out there, and they needed it fast.

He couldn't tell how deep her wound was. He didn't know if she'd last five more minutes or an hour. He just knew he had to get her help.

He pulled out his phone, ready to call Victoria and get the cavalry on that beach but—­

No fucking signal.

Just his luck.

He dropped the phone, letting it fall into the sand. Then he kept one hand at Melissa's throat, keeping up the pressure. With his right hand, he fumbled with the ropes that still held her other wrist captive. The damn knots there wouldn't give and he yanked and yanked—­

The rope broke. Her arm fell.

“It's okay,” Wade said again. He grabbed his gun and tucked it into his waistband. Then he picked her up. “We're getting out of here.”

The killer is close.

Was the SOB watching him even then? Hiding in the dark?

Wade half expected to feel a bullet lodge into his back as he rushed to make his way off the driftwood-­covered beach. But maybe all those trees—­tossed and broken as if a giant had thrown them aside, scattering them here—­maybe those trees were actually helping him as he fled with Melissa. Providing cover.

She was so still in his arms. Not holding onto him at all. Just limp. “Stay with me,” Wade told her. “You hear me? Stay. Fight. You have to fight.”

He tightened his hold on her and rushed into the darkness.

T
HE LOST AGENT
had found Melissa. She hadn't been given a chance to bleed out. Not yet.

He'd found her too soon.