Worth Dying For (A Slaughter Creek Novel) (18 page)

Brian slanted him a cold look. “Yes.”

“Her death changed your mind about medicine?” Liz asked.

Brian released a wary breath and then angled his head at Liz. “Yeah, just like your mother’s murder made you decide to choose police work.”

Liz forced herself not to react. Brian was trying to throw her off guard.

He angled his head toward Rafe. “And you? You grew up in the system, too, didn’t you, Hood? One of your own foster sisters died. My guess is that you felt guilty, so you joined the TBI. Maybe you’re the serial killer, not me.”

“Let’s talk about your family,” Liz said.

“What if I say no?”

Rafe shrugged. “We can do it here or down at the sheriff’s office. When did you find out you had a brother?”

For a brief second pain flickered in Brian’s eyes before he masked it. “A few months ago.”

So he had known. “How did you find out?” Liz asked.

Brian clenched his hands together. “One day I was helping my dad clean out the garage and found a box of old pictures. There was one of me as a baby and this other kid. He was about four.” Brian scraped a hand through his hair. “That’s when I realized they lied to me.”

“Did you ask them about him?” Liz asked.

“Yes. At first Dad got mad and didn’t want to talk about it. But he admitted that they gave my brother back, said he had emotional problems.”

“What kind of emotional problems?”

“That he was violent.” Brian cursed. “Hell, he was only four. How can you tell that at four?”

“Some mentally ill people exhibit signs at a very early age,” Liz pointed out.

“Did you find your brother?” Rafe asked.

“No. The social worker who handled our case wasn’t around anymore.”

“Did you find anything on him?” Liz pressed.

Brian fisted his hands by his sides. “I don’t know where you’re going with this, but I think he’s been through enough.”

Rafe cleared his throat. “What did you learn, Brian?”

“That he was put it an institution,” Brian snapped.

Liz glanced at Rafe, her mind ticking away the possibilities.

“Where?” Liz asked.

“I don’t know. But what the fuck? Who locks a four-year-old away like that?”

Liz had no answer that would satisfy Brian. “We have to find out where he was and what happened to him. He could be our killer.”

Brian glared at her, but didn’t offer any more information.

Liz swallowed hard. “I understand you may have compassion for him. You may even feel guilty that you had the better life. But if he is subject Six, and he mutilated those women, he needs to be stopped.”

“Have you had any contact with him?” Rafe asked bluntly.

Brian’s gaze shot to Rafe. “No.”

“Brian, please,” Liz said softly. “If you’re hiding him, you’ll be considered an accomplice to murder. The loyalty you feel for him may not be returned. It’s possible that he resents you, that he may try to get revenge on you. He may even be setting you up.”

“I can take care of myself,” Brian said. “Now we’re done here.”

“May I use your restroom before we go?” Liz asked.

Brian frowned. “I guess so. Second door on the left.”

Liz walked down the hall. The first door led to a small bedroom that doubled as an office. Dozens of books on medical and surgical techniques filled the bookshelf, along with books on crime-scene investigation. A clear glass jar on one shelf held colored marbles.

They made Liz think of Beaulah Hodge’s missing eye.

She examined the desk and found files about the Slaughter Creek project, about the murders orchestrated by Blackwood, about Amelia, and about the senator’s arrest. Another folder held articles about adoptions and a paper trail chronicling Brian’s adoption.

But there was nothing about his brother.

A bulletin board hung above the desk with photos of all the victims of the Slaughter Creek project. He’d added photos of Ester Banning and Beaulah Hodge.

Pulse pounding, Liz glanced at the desktop computer screen. Articles on amputations and eye surgeries filled the screen.

Brian had drawn lines connecting some of the photos and articles on the bulletin board; in another section she noticed a picture of a woman in her mid-fifties with shaggy brown hair and pale skin.

Liz leaned closer and skimmed the notes Castor had made about her. She was the social worker who’d handled his adoption.

Her name was Rusty Lintell.

And she was dead. Murdered two years ago.

About the same time Brian decided to become a CSI.

Rafe tried to mentally place himself in Brian Castor’s shoes. But their pasts were different.

At one point he’d attempted to find out where his real parents were, but that had only opened up a boatload of pain. His father had murdered his mother when he’d caught her trying to leave him, and had died in prison.

For the longest time, Rafe had wondered if he’d turn out like his old man. If genetically he’d been born a bad seed and would one day snap and murder someone.

But he’d met a cop who volunteered with homeless boys at a shelter, and that cop turned his thinking around. First he got Rafe involved in the Boys’ Club, where he made friends with other kids like himself. Then he encouraged Rafe to channel his rage into tracking down men like his father.

Every time he got justice for a victim, he was getting justice for his own mother.

It was the one connection he’d had with Liz. He understood her drive to find her mother’s murderer.

What would he have done if he’d discovered he had a sibling somewhere? A brother he’d been denied knowing? A brother who’d suffered horrendously at the hands of adults who should have taken care of him?

Liz walked back in, her expression troubled. “Thanks for talking with us,” she told Brian. “If you remember anything else that might help, give us a call.”

Brian looked confused that she was dismissing him, but Rafe followed her cue.

When they were headed back toward her place, Liz explained what she’d seen. “We need to review Castor’s phone records and put a trace on his cell. Then I want to talk to the sheriff who investigated the social worker’s murder.”

Rafe’s cell phone buzzed, and he pressed answer.

“Agent Hood, Mazie hasn’t shown back up at work, and she isn’t answering her phone.”

Worry pinched Rafe’s gut. “Give me her address. I’ll go check on her.”

The guard recited it, and Rafe spun the car around.

Shadows darkened the landscape as they neared the outskirts of Slaughter Creek again. Hoping the head nurse at the sanitarium might have information, Rafe wove through a tunnel of trees on a long, winding drive toward Mazie Paulsen’s house, the sleet turning to rain. Thunder rumbled and lighting zigzagged across the tops of the trees in jagged lines.

Trees swayed with the force of the wind, pinecones and debris scattering in the breeze. Raindrops splattered the windshield, a gray fog sweeping across the land and woods, making visibility difficult.

The SUV hit a pothole and slid, tires grinding in the mud. “I hope we don’t get stuck up here,” Liz said with a shiver.

Rafe maneuvered the vehicle onto the graveled portion of the road, steering it around a bend until they reached a clearing. Mazie lived on the side of the mountain in a small cabin nestled amid pines and oaks.

Rafe glanced around for a vehicle, but didn’t see one.

“It doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” Liz said.

Rafe pulled to a stop and cut the engine, his gaze sweeping the outside of the cabin. The place was small but looked well kept and offered a spectacular view of the mountain ridges. You could even see the town from the peak, and the road that led to the sanitarium.

Liz climbed out, but she seemed cautious as well as they walked up to the front porch. A porch swing creaked in the wind, several hand-painted roosters carved from wood decorating the porch. A weathervane flapped back and forth on the hill to the right.

Birdfeeders swayed in a nearby tree, and a deer grazed at the edge of the woods, as if he’d come to Mazie’s to be hand-fed.

Liz peered into the front windows, a frown puckering between her eyes. “It’s dark inside. No lights. Doesn’t look like she’s home.”

“Maybe she got spooked by the Commander’s prison escape and ran,” Rafe said.

“Let’s check the inside. Then I’ll do some research and find out if she has some family she might stay with.” She jiggled the doorknob, and Rafe heard it screech open.

He threw up a hand to caution her and pulled his gun, and she did the same. Shouldering his way to the front, he took the lead. Liz glared at him as if to protest, but he didn’t give a damn. If someone was waiting inside to ambush them, he’d rather the culprit meet his six-four, 220-pound body than Liz’s five-three, 110-pound frame.

The wood floors squeaked as he crossed the threshold. He played his flashlight over the space. The living room adjoined the kitchen, a wooden breakfast bar crafted from a tree trunk separating the areas.

But he forgot the architecture when he noticed that the place had been tossed. Papers from a corner oak desk were scattered among magazines on the floor. The leather furniture had been ripped apart with a sharp knife, the pillows torn, kitchen cabinets spilling out their contents.

Liz opened the pantry door. “Clear.”

He moved left and checked the master bedroom while she started up the steps. The bedroom was empty, the bedding tossed as well, pictures overturned, frames broken.

Seconds later Liz returned and appeared at the bedroom door. “It’s clear upstairs. Two rooms, no furniture in either one.”

“There are signs of a struggle in here.” He gestured to the overturned lamp, the dark handprint on the wall.

A print that looked like blood.

Liz knelt to examine the floor. “She was hurt, Rafe. There’s a lot of blood here.”

Liz was right. She’d obviously been injured.

The question was—was she still alive?

He cranked the engine and drove out toward Slaughter Creek, specifically to the place where that TBI agent Liz Lucas lived. He’d done his research on all the players in the Slaughter Creek investigation.

He’d seen that looker Brenda Banks when she’d done the story on Seven. She’d even made Seven sound sympathetic.

Now she was talking about him. The Dissector, that’s what they were calling him.

He laughed at the name. It suited him. Made him stand out. Made him sound a little like Hannibal, except that he didn’t eat his victims.

He just destroyed them by stripping them of the very organ that they used as a weapon.

Special Agent Rafe Hood worked with the Blackwood brothers. But they were chasing the Commander now.

Lucky for him the police were splintered.

And Miss Lucas. Ah, she was a beauty. Soft-looking blond hair swept her shoulders like silk. Her big luminous eyes shimmered with dark memories of her mother’s death.

And of the man who’d almost destroyed her.

Ned Harlan. The Blade.

A smile curved his mouth. Liz was back, though, working his case. He was honored that she considered his mind worthy of dissecting.

Honored because she wasn’t some damn fake. She’d lived with a maniac like Harlan and understood his drive. She would understand him as well. And she would make him famous. Make him a hero.