Worth Dying For (A Slaughter Creek Novel) (23 page)

He taped pictures of the major organs of the body along the wall by the shelf holding his trophies. The brain, lungs, bladder, small intestine, large intestine, kidneys, heart . . .

The heart pumped blood through the body and gave it life.

But there were other expressions about the heart.

Brokenhearted
. What did that mean? Was the heart broken? Or were feelings just hurt?

He loved her with all his heart
. But the heart was an organ, a physical entity. It had nothing to do with love.

He was good-hearted.
That meant he was kind and loving. But did kind and loving really have anything to do with blood pumping through the body?

He had no heart
. Which meant the person was evil.

That saying he believed in.

The woman he wanted to take next had no heart. Not like a mother should. She had taken him in, then thrown him away. She only loved one of her children.

And that child hadn’t been him.

So she’d sent him to an institution where that monster the Commander had poked and prodded him, turned him into a number instead of a man.

She had to pay.

He removed the photograph he carried of her from his pocket and studied it. She was younger than the others. Maybe mid-forties now. An attractive woman, with wavy brown hair, green eyes, and a smile for the camera and the man beside her. Yes, she looked at him with doting eyes and a puffed-up chest.

But she’d forgotten
him
as if he’d never existed.

Soon she would remember everything
.

And if she cried for help or forgiveness, he’d carve out her heart. Then everyone would know she didn’t have one.

Chapter Twenty-Four

S
heriff Jake Blackwood studied his brother’s computer, searching for clues as to where Nick might have gone.

The fact that Brenda had shown up at dawn at the cabin where he and Sadie, Ayla, Gigi, and Amelia were staying had freaked the hell out of him.

Worse, if Nick hadn’t found a way to contact Brenda, Jake was damn worried, too.

Determined to get answers, he scoured Nick’s history on his laptop. The last open file was a website for a group supporting the Commander—apparently the bastard had garnered followers.

Jake’s gut tightened with disgust.

It seemed that Nick had researched several names, hunting for more information on individual forum posters.

A militia group calling themselves the SFTF—Soldiers for the Future—caught his attention with the force of a brick in his gut. Many of the comments boasted about the government needing cutting-edge thinkers like the Commander, citing dozens of examples of suspected terrorist activities, conspiracy theories, alleged experiments, and military acts by enemy countries.

He clicked for more information but couldn’t determine the group’s physical location. But he did find photos of preteen boys being trained as guerilla soldiers.

Had Nick discovered the location for this place? Was that where he’d gone?

Jesus, why hadn’t he called Jake for backup?

He scrolled through a group of photos of military tactical training exercises, stirring memories of the rigorous training exercises the Commander had forced on him and Nick.

Another photo made his blood freeze. He leaned closer, studying the face. The photo was grainy, the man’s face smeared with mud for the training exercise, but Jake recognized him.

Chet Roper.

Jake had served with the man.

His pulse thrumming, he entered Roper’s name into the police database and ran a search.

Seconds later he fisted his hands by his side. Dammit to hell. Roper was a guard at the state prison.

Jake punched the number for the warden and asked if Roper was on duty.

“Yes, he’s here today.”

“Don’t let him leave,” Jake said. “I think he may have helped Arthur Blackwood escape. I’m on my way.”

The deputy phoned that Truitt was still missing, but Mazie Paulsen’s car had been found on Windmill Road. Rafe and Liz drove straight from Sheriff Laredo’s cabin to the site.

“How did you find it?” Rafe asked the deputy.

“A lady called in,” he explained. “Said she passed it on her way into the mountain, but she wouldn’t leave her name or number. Said she didn’t want to get involved.”

“How about caller ID?”

“A pay phone from a convenience store a few miles down the road. I talked to the owner, but he claims he doesn’t remember the woman.”

A dead end.

Liz walked over to examine the red Toyota. The front end had crashed into a ditch, glass had shattered all over the interior, and blood soaked the driver’s seat.

“This is strange,” Liz said. “First we find Mazie’s place trashed and blood inside. Now her car and more blood.”

The deputy shaded his eyes with his hand. “Maybe someone attacked her at her house, and she escaped. She could have been driving too fast, or maybe she crashed because she was weak.”

Liz leaned closer to look at the blood. “Then where’s the body?”

“Maybe her attacker was following. He ran her off the road, then abducted her.”

“You’re probably right.” Liz walked around the car and checked the trunk.

Rafe examined the tires, then the tire prints in the dirt and the skid marks on the black asphalt. “Odd. I don’t see tire marks for a second vehicle.”

“Call a crime unit,” Rafe told the deputy. “We need to process the car for evidence.”

Liz rubbed her forehead in worry. “I’m going to call the Castors. If the son they gave up is Six, he may eventually decide to punish them, like he punished the nurses.”

“Mrs. Castor in particular,” Rafe said. “She was supposed to be a mother to him, like she was to Brian. She could be his end game.”

Liz stepped aside to make the call, and Rafe and the deputy searched the area in case the killer had left Mazie’s body in the woods.

Liz paced beside the road. “Mrs. Castor, I’m sorry to disturb you again, but we need to talk.”

“How dare you interrogate my son as if he was some kind of criminal?” Mrs. Castor said in a shrill voice. “Brian is a good boy. He would never hurt anyone.”

“You should have told us his brother had emotional problems,” Liz countered. “We’re looking into the possibility that he resurfaced. That he may have a vendetta against your family. Has Brian spoken with him?”

“No. If he had, he would have told us.”

“Maybe not,” Liz said. “He was angry that you and your husband kept secrets from him.”

Fear laced Mrs. Castor’s voice, “You think Jeremy might hurt Brian?”

Liz silently debated whether to tell the woman her suspicions. “At this point, I can’t really say. But we think he may be responsible for killing three women, and that he is extremely dangerous.”

“You mean he’s that horrid killer they’re calling the Dissector?” Mrs. Castor cried.

Liz hated the names people gave serial killers. Naming them seemed to glorify them, which fed into the demented minds of the killers. Made them into legends, which was exactly what they wanted.

“We’re working on that theory,” Liz said calmly. “So far his victims have been nurses. We suspect that they treated him during the experiment, and now he’s taking revenge.”

A long pause, fraught with tension. “This is our fault,” Mrs. Castor said. “If we’d kept Jeremy, maybe we could have gotten him help, some therapy, and none of this would have happened.”

Liz inhaled deeply, her chest aching. The Castors were obviously nice people; they had done the best they could in a difficult situation. “This isn’t your fault, Mrs. Castor. And I certainly didn’t call to blame you. But I did want to warn you. It might be best if you and your husband went somewhere for a few days until we solve this case.”

“All right. Brian can leave town with us.”

“Mrs. Castor, Brian can’t leave town now. He may be able to help us catch Jeremy.”

“How? If Jeremy resents Brian, he might try to hurt him.”

Or they could be working together. “We’ll make sure he’s protected,” Liz assured her.

Even if they had to lock him up to do so.

As Rafe drove toward Castor’s apartment, Liz’s phone buzzed.

“It’s Anderson Loggins from the sanitarium,” she said before stabbing the connect button. “Agent Lucas speaking.” A pause. “Yes.” Another pause, and Liz’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “Okay, thanks.”

She hung up and turned to Rafe. “Loggins passed the latest victim’s photo around, and one of the janitors recognized her. Her name is Ruth Rodgers. She worked at the sanitarium when Blackwood was director.”

Rafe chewed the inside of his cheek. “At least now we understand the victimology.”

He pulled up at Castor’s place, and they hurried up to his apartment. But when they rang the bell, no one answered.

Rafe pounded on the door while Liz canvassed the area, but no one responded.

“I don’t see his car,” Liz said.

“His parents probably warned him we were coming.”

Liz punched in a number. “Lieutenant Maddison, it’s Agent Lucas. Have you heard from Brian Castor?”

Rafe peeked in the front window but the rooms were dark. Still, enough daylight flickered in to show him that nothing looked amiss. No furniture overturned. No bloody body.

Unless it was in a room he couldn’t see.

“Thanks,” Liz said. “Let us know if you hear from him.”

Rafe removed a tool from his pocket and picked the lock.

“You’re breaking in?” Liz asked.

“It’s a reasonable search. For all we know, he could be inside, hurt.”

Liz pulled her gun and followed him in. They combed each of the rooms, but Castor wasn’t there, and neither was his body. Rafe noted Castor’s collection of articles on the experiments and books on dissection, and his research into his family.

“He certainly has the background knowledge and motive, doesn’t he?” Liz commented.

Rafe nodded as he dug through the files on Brian’s desk. Nothing new, although it was interesting how much work Brian had done on his own researching the Dissector.

Liz checked the man’s nightstand. “Look at this, Rafe. It’s a gas receipt.”

Rafe walked over to examine it. “Castor bought gas the day the Commander escaped from prison. And the station where he gassed up was only three miles from the state prison.”

Jake explained to the warden that he’d found Chet Roper’s name associated with a militant group.

“You think this group has something to do with Arthur Blackwood?”

Jake showed him a printout of some of the posts. “You tell me.”

The warden skimmed the page. “Jesus, I’ve heard of these kinds of groups. They’re dangerous. But Roper? Hell, he’s been one of the best guards I’ve ever had. In fact I had him keeping an ear out to help determine how Blackwood planned the escape.”

“Perfect for him,” Jake said wryly.

The warden grimaced. “I’m sorry, I . . . didn’t see it.”

Because Roper had covered his tracks. “The group he works with is training boys to be soldiers,” Jake said. “It sounds like Roper is right in the middle of it.”