Santos dug a notebook out of his pocket and flipped through the pages. He wrote the name down along with several statistics Matthews had chronicled.
Beck flipped through her book. “He was tracking her for months, yet the book stops right before her murder. No shots of her after he killed her.”
“He was moving pretty quickly then. He’d killed three women in the span often days.”
“But the details were important to him. Why did he leave that last shot out of his book?”
Raines sat in his hotel room, perched on the edge of his bed staring at the television he’d not bothered to turn on. He’d been chasing this moment for over seven years and had never known what to expect when he’d reached it. He’d expected elation. A sense of peace that one feels when he’s jumped a major hurdle in his life.
But he felt none of that. He felt oddly empty. The purpose and goal that had robbed him of sleep, driven him to distraction, and, yes, given him a reason to live for so long was gone. And all he felt now was empty and let down.
A knock on his door had him tensing. He didn’t want to see anyone or talk to anyone. He wanted to be alone with his emptiness and figure out how the hell he was going to live the rest of his life.
“I know you’re in there, Raines.” Danni’s raspy voice cut through the door and reached him.
He lifted his head. “Go away, kid.”
“No can do. I came to see you. You’re the big damn hero according to the television.”
“Danni, go away.”
“Open the door, Raines.” If she’d demanded he’d have ignored her, but the quiet pleading in her voice was his undoing. He rose, his limbs weary with fatigue, and opened the door.
She grinned up at him, a sparkle in her dark eyes. “You look like shit.”
A half grin tipped the edge of his mouth. “Good to see you too.”
She held up a bottle of whiskey. “Got some of those fancy plastic cups in there?”
“You’re underage. How did you get that whiskey?”
She laughed. “Child’s play. You gonna let me in?”
He stepped aside and allowed her to pass.
“Where are your glasses?”
“You’re not drinking around me, kid.”
She rolled her eyes, but there was no force behind her words. “You’re such an old lady. I’ve drank before.”
He took the bottle from her. “I don’t care. Not around me.”
“Fine.” She vanished into the bathroom and returned with one plastic-covered cup. “You are gonna drink.”
His back ached, and his head throbbed. “A drink would hit the spot.”
She grinned, held out the cup, and watched as he filled the cup with the gold liquid. “You’ve had a day.”
He accepted the cup and took a liberal swallow. “Thanks.”
“How’s Lara?”
“She’s a little banged up, but she’s going to be okay.”
“Thanks for that. I like her. She’s been a good friend. You’ve been a good friend.”
He lifted his gaze from the bottom of the cup. “You’re a good kid.”
She arched a brow. “Ah, shucks, Mr. Raines. You’re gonna make me blush.”
“Smart-ass.”
“So this Jonathan Matthews asshole was a real bad dude from what I’m hearing on the news.”
He refilled the glass and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Yeah. A bad dude.”
She sat down beside him, close but not close enough to touch. “I’m glad you got him. I’m glad he’s dead.”
He downed the second shot. “You’re a bloodthirsty kid.”
She touched his hand with hesitant reassurance. “He hurt women. He got what he deserved.”
“That he did.” He reached in a dresser drawer and pulled out a small white box with a red bow. “Got something for you.”
Danni accepted the envelope. “What is this?”
“Birthday present. Turning eighteen is a big deal.”
She glanced in the box and then reached for the bow.
“No, no, no,” he said. “You’ve got to wait for your birthday.”
“That’s just two days away.”
“Two days is two days. Promise me you’ll wait.”
She chewed her bottom lip. “I hate waiting.”
He cocked his head. “But . . .”
“I’ll wait for you.”
“Good.”
“I’ll take you out for coffee, and I’ll open it in front of you.”
“Sounds good, but I might not be here. I got a trip to take and I want to make sure you are taken care of.”
“Where are you going?”
“Not far.”
“You’ll be back soon?”
He grinned. “As quick as I can.”
Chapter 22
Saturday, June 2, 8 AM
Lara woke the next morning feeling more like herself than she had in years. After a quick shower and a fresh change of clothes, she let Lincoln out and brewed herself a cup of coffee. She stood by the back window watching Lincoln rooting his nose in underbrush on a hunt for yet another rabbit. The dog had yet to catch a single animal, but that didn’t stop him from hunting.
Lara checked her watch. She had to get to the school and finish setting up the student art show and turn in her final grades for the semester. Once those two tasks were finished today, she was officially free to do whatever pleased her. In years past, every free moment had gone into her photography: scouring papers for crime reports, locating the scenes, finding the right time to snap her images, and then spending hours and hours in the darkroom.
She glanced at the black-and-white stills hanging on her walls. Like all her recent work they looked like landscapes, seascapes, or random city streets. But all were places of death. She’d shot them all hoping to see something that would tell her why people killed. But all the shots, though provocative, hadn’t told her anything that would have prepared her for Jonathan’s second attack.
There’d been dozens of calls from the media, but she’d let the answering machine take the messages. And when the machine had filled, well, then the calls just got dropped or ignored. She didn’t want to talk about Jonathan.
Cassidy had fielded dozens of calls, which she’d gladly taken. Lara had seen Cassidy on the news several times, talking grimly into the camera about the monster who had fooled them all. Of course, all her interviews had been at the gallery, in front of it or in front of one of Lara’s images. Sales had gone through the roof and Lara had already decided to donate the proceeds to a victim’s shelter. She considered the sales blood money, and she did not want them.
Lara and Beck had talked a couple of times, but there’d been no time to see each other. She missed him, missed being in his arms. With each passing day she wondered if whatever connection they’d shared had been real or raw need that came as quick as lightning.
Shoving out a breath, she packed her backpack for the trip into town. She thought back to the summers she’d spent with Jonathan when they’d been growing up.
When she was a kid she’d found a snake in the yard and screamed. He’d raced forward and killed the rattler. She’d been relieved. Called him her hero. He’d beamed. Later, he’d proudly shown her his new snakeskin wallet he’d sewn. He’d carried the wallet for years.
His trophy for a kill. She thought about his home. What other trophies had he taken from his victims?
She shuddered and set down her cup. The need to shoot more death images still lingered. And she found herself wondering if she should shoot the latest victim’s crime scene. Or perhaps she should shoot Jonathan’s house. Maybe there was something there that would make sense of the madness.
“Enough. Get on with your life.”
Grabbing her purse, she whistled for the dog and minutes later the two were in the truck and headed to the school. She arrived at the school and went straight to the gallery, where the unhung pictures remained. Her hope was to avoid all questions and people and
just get her work done. No more drama. No more death.