Before She Dies (Alexandria Novels 3)

When she reached the stop sign, she paused and then took a left toward her house. He followed her for two more blocks and then took a right. She gripped the wheel, grateful and sorry he no longer followed.

“The number one rule is not to care,” she said. Since she’d fled the carnival, she’d never broken the ironclad rule. Not once. Now it was becoming a habit.

First with her employees.

Then with Sooner.

And now with Rokov.

It was close to midnight when Grady stood outside the two-story brick home. The neighborhood tidy look-alike lawns, neat curbs hugging well-paved stre

ets, and houses that all spoke of stability, money, and decency. He knew firsthand how much shit hid behind respectability. Folks who lived in places like this might think they were better than him, but they were just as dishonest.

Nearly every house on the block was dark. Good. He exhaled a lungful of cigarette smoke, and ground out the butt in the ashtray of his truck. “Tight-ass fuckers. You don’t fool Grady.”

He got out of the car, cringing against the cold, hurried across the street. He crossed the lawn of a neat little house and hurried to the back fence. Carefully, he opened the gate. In the distance a dog barked.

His lungs burned as he jogged around the side of the house to a small side door. Pulling a screwdriver from his jacket pocket, he wedged the tip under the lock and pushed. The wood cracked and splintered and the lock slid open. A turn of the handle, and he was inside the house.

The utility room was small and painted a bright yellow. Across from the door stood the washer and dryer, piled high with freshly folded laundry. A basketball, scooter, and baseball mitt filled a corner and there was a cat’s litter box to his right. A cat wouldn’t be a problem but a dog was another matter. Those fuckers made a lot of noise.

He waited, listened, but didn’t hear a sound. Carefully he moved into the house, which smelled of Pine-Sol and pizza. He’d watched the house for a couple of days and knew the woman here lived alone with her two young children. He wasn’t sure what had happened to her old man but right now didn’t care. She was alone, defenseless, and that was all that mattered.

He moved down a carpeted hallway and up the stairs past dozens of framed pictures of her two children. The little girl reminded him of a cleaned up, suburban version of Grace. The top step creaked and he paused, ready to dash back down the stairs. But the house remained quiet, except for the hum of the heater. He moved to the back room and opened the cracked door. Moonlight filtered in through a window, casting a beam of light on the bed where the woman slept. She lay on her side, away from the dresser and window.

He stood at the edge of the bed, watching her sleep. She had no idea that monsters didn’t just lurk in the imaginations of children. Monsters lived in the real world, and sometimes they were so close you could feel their breath on your neck.

She groaned, rolled on her stomach, and let out a sigh. She was pretty in a mousy sort of way. Monsters ate mice like her for breakfast.

He turned and moved toward the dresser. It wasn’t littered with makeup and perfume bottles like Sooner’s but was neat and clean. Carefully, he opened the top drawer, and found a jewelry box. He removed it, closed the drawer, and set it on the dresser top. The hinges of the box squeaked when he opened it and inspected the contents. He smiled, removed what he’d wanted, and pocketed it.

Instead of replacing the jewelry box, he set it on the floor and unzipped his pants. He fished out his dick and pissed on the box.

Grinning, he zipped up his pants and glanced at the Mouse. He wanted her to know he’d been in her room, standing next to her bed and watching her sleep. He wanted her to know that at any moment he could have taken that same jewelry box and beaten her to death. And he wanted her to worry and wonder when he would be back.

Chapter 20

Friday, October 29, 9 a.m.

“We have two hits on ViCap,” Sinclair said. She stood in Rokov’s door with the file in hand.

The fatigue that had been weighing him down vanished. “Where?”

“Raleigh, North Carolina. Twelve years ago. And Athens, Georgia, ten years ago.” She moved into his office and sat at his desk.

“Hold on a minute, I want to get Garrison and Kier in here.” He placed calls to both and it was agreed the four would meet in the conference room. Five minutes later, they were assembled around the large rectangular table in the windowless room.

Garrison and Kier both showed signs of fatigue. Like Sinclair and Rokov, they’d been chasing down interviews on anyone who might have known something valuable about either victim.

Sinclair opened the file, which like most ViCap reports contained crime scene descriptions and photos, victim profiles, lab reports, and any other information that might help create a link between the crime and others like it.

“According to this report, the victim’s name was Margaret Day, age thirty-two.” She pulled photos of the crime scene and dispersed them to the team.

Rokov studied the picture, which had eerie similarities to his two crime scenes. Margaret Day’s body had been laid out in a green field, her hands and feet tied to stakes hammered in the ground. She wore a black dress and had a thick shock of dark hair, which flowed out around her head. Rain had dampened her body and the ground around her, and a thick mist hovered in the distance. Written on her forehead was the word Witch.

“Tell me about the victim,” Garrison said.

Sinclair flipped through the pages. “She was a prostitute. She didn’t work the streets but kept an apartment where she welcomed regular clients managed by her pimp. According to her pimp, her thing was dominance. She was called the Sorceress.”

“They checked out all her clients.”

“The ones that they could find. No one gave last names, all transactions were in cash, and there were no cameras watching the building.”

“Who reported her missing?”

“No one. She was found in a wooded area by a couple of hikers who’d ventured off the trail. According to the medical examiner, she’d been sexually assaulted several times before she died. At the time she was found, she’d been dead about five days. She was staked to the ground.”

“How did she die?” Rokov said.

“The medical examiner suspected drowning.” Sinclair tapped an agitated finger on the file. “Why drown them? Kicks? Excitement?”

“Maybe he needs information or proof?” Rokov said.

“He needs to assure himself that they are witches.”

“Why does he care about a confession?” Garrison said.

“Maybe he’s got a perverted sense of justice.”

Garrison nodded. “Go on.”

“Maybe he doesn’t feel justified killing an innocent. He’s only about destroying the guilty. Think about the crime scenes. He’s almost warning whoever finds the body that they have found something evil and dangerous.”

Garrison shook his head. “That’s one hell of a theory.”

Rokov took the next file from Sinclair. “This ViCap report is from Georgia. Ten years ago.” He flipped through the pages. “Alice Carrington, age thirty-five. She worked as an Athens librarian and vanished after a Halloween party. Found two weeks later, wooded area, staked to the ground.”

“Let me guess, she was wearing a witch costume,” Sinclair said.

Rokov nodded. “That’s correct. And like the others, she was sexually assaulted.”

“There are no other hits?” Garrison said.

“None,” Sinclair said. “And I’ve checked.”

“So assuming his first victim was Mariah Wells, his first recorded kill is eighteen years ago, in Alexandria, Virginia; the next in Raleigh, North Carolina, and the last we know of is Athens, Georgia. Assuming there are no other victims, his cooling-off periods lasted six years and then two years. For almost a decade he doesn’t kill?”

“Assuming there are no others,” Garrison said. “The first three bodies were left off the beaten track. There could be others never found.”

“Mariah was by the road,” Sinclair said.

“But she’d been moved,” Rokov said. “And I’d bet not by the killer.”

Garrison traced his jaw line with the edge of his reading glasses. “Still no trace of Grady Tate?”

“No. He’s crawled under a rock.”

“Was there any DNA in the other cases?” Kier said.

Rokov scanned the file. “In Austin. Traces of semen were found on the victim. We can see if we’ve got a match between that case and what the medical examiner collected from under Diane Young’s fingernails.”

“He’s so careful about his planning. I can’t believe he’d leave behind DNA,” Sinclair said.

“Maybe because it’s not on file anywhere,” Rokov said.

“His pace is much faster now,” Kier said. “And a faster pace means he’s going to make a mistake very soon.”

“I’d like to think he’s already made that mistake and we’ve just missed it,” Rokov said. He studied the locations of the murders. Virginia. North Carolina. Georgia. “All the murders we have took place in the Mid-Atlantic and South.”

“Grady Tate’s carnival travels the Mid-Atlantic and South,” Sinclair said.

“We’ve got to find Grady. He is the key to all this.” Kier said.

Rokov glanced at the files. “One other thing. All the murders took place in October.”

Perfection was its own brand of holiness. This, he understood, had been the key to his survival all these years. He’d been careful to control his impulses, knowing a man who let his emotions run amuck was a fool doomed to fail. He’d made a lot of mistakes in his past and had let emotions rule him. He’d been in danger of falling prey to his own needs when he’d met the woman that had brought calm to his life. She’d given him hope. Showed him that goodness was all around. And she had given him the strength to maintain strict control over his life.

And then she had turned on him.

A glass of whiskey in his hand, he stared down at the letter that had arrived this morning. He’d gone to her with hat in hand and opened his heart to her. She’d been quiet and told him she needed to think, all the while knowing this letter had been posted.

Neatly typed wording. Precise. Not a word wasted. And cutting to the core.

If she thought she could leave him, she was wrong. She was his and she belonged to him. He wanted to kill her tonight. He wanted to strap her to his board and dunk her head into the cool waters until she screamed for mercy and confessed her sins.

But he wouldn’t kill her. Not yet. But soon.

There was work to be finished before month’s end. He needed to vanquish more evil. Cleanse his soul.

Draining the last of the whiskey, he carefully folded the letter and tucked it back in the cream-colored envelope.