The Seventh Victim (Texas Rangers 1)

The apartment was basic, but as college apartments went it was suitable. The foyer opened into a small kitchen, which led into a small living room furnished with a leather sofa and a chair. A collection of boxes were stacked high in the corner of the living room by an old television.

“Looks like she was getting ready to pack,” Santos said.

Beck glanced down at an open calendar on the counter. Notes were scribbled in the thirty-one blocks of May. He flipped to June and saw that the fourth was circled and in bold red ink Gretchen had scribbled Move! She’d been weeks away from starting a new chapter in her life.

Down a short hallway were two bedrooms on the left and a bathroom on the right. The first bedroom was stripped bare, and furnished only with the stock bed and desk supplied by the apartment building. The next bedroom was a riot of purple bedding, pillows, and sheer curtains. Neatly laundered and folded clothes were piled high in a laundry basket by a desk that was covered with books and papers. Above the desk hung a collage picture frame with an assortment of black-and-white photos. Some shots appeared to have been taken in Austin, others at the beach, and others in New York. Gretchen was smiling in them all.

Beck rubbed the back of his neck as he stared at the neatly made bed and the high-heeled shoes lined up beneath it. “She was organized.”

“Hell of a sight better than my college dorm room.”

Beck had lived at Henry’s when he’d gone to UT. It hadn’t been the fun ride lots of his friends had had, but he’d never been able to justify the extra rent. Plus, being at home, he’d been able to work in the garage during his spare hours. “I’ll have a check run on her financials. According to Missing Persons, she has no police record in Texas.”

Santos leaned into a picture of Gretchen hugging a woman who could have been her mother. “Kid seemed to be doing everything right. Played by the rules.”

Beck opened her closet. It was crammed full of clothes that came in every color but white. “She doesn’t seem partial to white.”

Santos glanced over his shoulder. “The whole room is color.”

Beck captured a red coat sleeve between his fingertips. “Nice material. The dress we found her in was homemade.”

“So the killer put her in it?”

“In Seattle, the killer did redress his victims.”

“You actually think we have the Seattle Strangler?”

“Shit, I don’t know.” Fatigue hung heavily on his shoulders. He’d had two hours of sleep last night, and the adrenaline from this morning had waned.

They spent the next hour searching the apartment, going through her mail, her notes, her schoolbooks, and even the kitchen drawers. No evidence suggested she’d been threatened, hassled, or stalked.

“How the hell did she catch his attention?” Beck muttered. They’d have to dig and peel away the layers of her life before they could hope to find that answer. Most folks who stayed on the straight and narrow didn’t find themselves murdered. Generally, it was the folks who strayed to the dark side—drugs, alcohol, or prostitution—who got tagged.

But there were exceptions. And after two hours of mining information and finding nothing, he wondered if Gretchen Hart hadn’t been one of those who’d just attracted the attention of a nut with his own twisted agenda.

Gently, he closed The Book of Gretchen and placed it on the shelf in his office. The slim, red book resembled several others he’d shelved, and like the others, was filled with a collection of notes, photos, musings, surveillance notes, and, of course, his dark plans.

Keeping and creating the books for his girls was such a part of his process now he didn’t think he could just kill anyone without knowing them. His books created an intimacy. A connection. A bond.

He’d been watching Gretchen since Christmas. He’d seen her crossing the university campus. It had been a cool, brisk day, and she’d been wearing a black turtleneck, jeans, and boots. She’d stopped for coffee—a nonfat latté. She’d been talking to a friend. Laughing. Her eyes had danced with excitement. And she’d spoken of moving to New York. “I’m counting the days,” she’d said.

He’d kept his gaze on his newspaper, but he’d not seen a single word after she’d come into the shop. She had consumed him. Overtaken him. And that exact day, he’d gone out and purchased one blank, red, leather-bound book and had her name engraved in gold, raised lettering on the cover: Gretchen Hart.

He skimmed his fingertips over the other books and settled on the thickest. The Book of Lara.

He’d been keeping this book for twelve years. He’d kept so many notes on Lara that he’d had to buy another book, which he realized was now almost filled. She was the one that got away.

After Seattle, he’d lost track of her. He’d felt lost. Empty. But then circumstance had brought her back to him. The instant he’d seen her, he’d begun taking more notes on her. He dreamed of her. Of having his fingers around her neck again.

It would have been easy to kill her outright. She was his for the picking. But where was the fun in rushing? She wasn’t going anywhere, and he had time.

Carefully, he pulled the book from the shelf and thumbed through the full pages stuffed with pictures and more notes. He flipped to one of the first pages, dated June 1, twelve years ago.

When I saw her I just about tripped over my own feet. She looked so sweet, so lovely and so sad. I couldn’t find the right words to speak when she said hello, so I fumbled a quick awkward greeting. Immediately, a keen stirring inside made me sit a little straighter. I stretched my arms as if awaking from a slumber.

When I slept, it was not a restful time. I dreamed more than I had in years, and all my dreams focused completely on Lara.

He ran his hand down the page. He was no longer a stumbling fool as he had been twelve years ago. He was a man in control of himself.

Lara was the one whom he craved when he’d strangled Lou Ellen and Gretchen. She was the one. And soon he’d let his beast out to play with Lara.

For now, watching was enough.

Chapter 4

Tuesday, May 21, 6:45 AM

Lara’s German Shepherd, Lincoln, barked behind the house, a clear sign he’d found another rabbit to chase.

While the dog woofed, she watched the sun rise over the horizon as she’d done dozens of times over the last eight months.

Daybreak never failed to awe and calm. A new sunrise. A new day. A gift. A victory.

Most folks missed moments like this. Too busy, still sleeping, or just not interested, many people never paused to watch the sun rise. Not Lara. She watched every one she could.

Lincoln barked louder, prompting her to rise from her chair and walk around the one-level rancher to the backyard. The lush, now overgrown gardens had been her grandmother’s pride and joy. They’d grown wild during the last years of her grandmother’s life. Though she’d tilled the soil with her grandmother as a child, she’d neglected the beds. She’d claimed lack of time, but in all honesty she wanted to avoid the memories of a loving grandmother whom she still missed.

To appease her grandmother’s spirit she’d bought a collection of annuals and put them in scattered pots on the porch. But so far she’d not been great about watering them. For the last six years, she’d dedicated herself to photography, and the rest of life just got done when it got done.

Lincoln dug deep next to a rosebush, and though she enjoyed watching the dog joyfully burrow, her grandmother’s unquestionable concern for her roses had her saying, “Let it go, boy.”

Lincoln looked up, his brown nose snorting.

“Go on. Eat the breakfast I set out for you.” She took the dog by the collar and led him to the large, dented bowl by the back sliding door. He sniffed his dry food, which she’d laced with a bit of chicken broth. He started to eat.

She sat on the stoop beside him and sipped her juice.

For the last seven years, Lara had lived a gypsy’s life, traveling from west to east and back again. Fear of settling had kept her moving f

rom town to town.

And then eight months ago her grandmother had passed in her sleep and had willed Lara her one-story limestone house set on ten acres of wooded land accessible by a winding gravel road. Her grandmother, Edna Bower, had not been an easy woman. She and Lara had had their share of disagreements. Lara had been a bit of a know-it-all in her teens and her grandmother rigid. But despite their differences she’d given Lara all her summers and finally the home they’d shared.

Lara had been in Maine when Edna had passed, and she had not received word in time to return for the funeral. When she had come back to Austin, she’d had no intention of staying. She’d settle the estate and move on. But this place, her summer home as a kid, had had a pull she’d not expected.

The house, more than simple shelter, had come with a collection of comforting memories that had seduced her to defy better judgment and give up her nomad life “for just a few days.”

Days soon turned into a few weeks, and when she’d been here a month, she’d set up a darkroom in her grandmother’s old potting shed. She’d cleared out the collection of clay pots, swept the dirt off the floor, and covered the windows with black plastic. The shed came equipped with electricity and water, so it was little time before her equipment was out of the back of her truck and installed in her first official darkroom.