Читать книгу Accessory To Marriage - Ann Voss Peterson - Страница 15

Risa leaned against one of the government-beige walls in the entrance of the prison—walls that closed in around her, crowding her, smothering her. Like all the other times she’d ventured inside the razor wire, the lack of light and air and freedom made her lungs constrict and her heart pound. But it was what she’d seen in Kane’s cell that made her head throb with fear.

The sight of that photo of Dixie cut and bloody had left her shaking. She’d known Kane intended to kill Dixie since the day of their wedding, but seeing such a graphic reenactment of his earlier crimes with Dixie as his subject was almost more than she could take.

And the worst part was that he’d gotten to her. His booby trap had worked. She’d blown it. She’d insisted she didn’t need protection, that she could handle whatever Kane had planned, and the truth was, she couldn’t.

Trent was right. All the research she’d done into the criminal mind, all the horror stories she’d heard while compiling that research, none of it had prepared her to face the blood on that photograph. The slit down the middle of Dixie’s body. The clear threat to her sister’s life.

Trent hadn’t thrown her over his shoulder, thankfully. But he had whisked her out of the cell block, deposited her here and instructed Duane to baby-sit until he and Wiley could gather up Kane’s belongings and make sure they hadn’t missed anything.

She gritted her teeth and cursed her own weakness. Thank God, she hadn’t fainted. If she had, Trent probably would have shipped her off in an ambulance and ordered the doctors to sequester her in the hospital until Dixie was rescued. Or until it was too late. At least here, she could talk to the guards and do some general fact gathering on her own. She might still be able to help in some way.

She sighed and looked up at Duane. Even before he’d phoned to inform her of Dixie’s secret wedding, the guard had taken her under his wing. And judging by the way he hovered over her, he was nearly as protective as Trent.

Noticing her gaze on him, Duane laid his hand on her arm, his big mitt making it look as fragile as a toothpick. “I’m real sorry about what happened, Professor.”

She looked into his weary eyes. “Thanks, Duane. That means a lot to me.”

The guard’s coarse features clouded with obvious anger. “Damn Kane. Why did he have to drag your sister into this?”

“I don’t know.” She resisted the urge to pace the floor. She didn’t want to be reduced to bemoaning her sister’s status as a fugitive. She wanted to find Dixie. She wanted to do something to get her little sister away from Kane.

She glanced around the entrance to the prison, at the barred doors leading to inner corridors guarded by more barred doors. Despite the warden’s moans about funding for extra guards and security measures, the prison seemed awfully secure to her. Impenetrable. She couldn’t imagine how a prisoner could break out. Not without inside help. “How well did you know Kane, Duane?”

Duane’s mouth curled in distaste. “Know him?”

“Did you ever talk to him? Have any personal contact with him?”

Duane shook his big head. “I don’t talk to the scum that lives here.”

“Never?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Are any of the guards friendly with prisoners? Or more specifically, were any friendly with Kane?”

Rolling his eyes to the ceiling, he thought for a moment. “No one comes to mind.”

“Can you think of anyone who would have reason to help Kane?”

Surprise registered on Duane’s face. “Help him?”

“Yes. Help him escape. Someone who might have helped him get through security and over the fence, so Dixie could pick him up.”

Duane’s bushy brows turned down, and he shook his head. “I think you got it wrong. He must have gotten out on his own.”

“How? It seems like it would be impossible for any prisoner to get out of this place on his own.”

Duane’s big shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “I can’t imagine anyone lifting a finger to help a monster like that. But then I’m probably wrong. I can’t imagine anyone marr—” His cheeks and neck colored with embarrassment.

“You can’t imagine anyone marrying him, either,” she finished for him, heaviness settling on her shoulders. “It’s okay, Duane. Neither can I.”

“The best thing that could happen would be if someone took Kane out while he’s on the loose.” His voice dropped and shadows darkened his eyes. “He didn’t give those girls he killed a chance—hunting them down and gutting them like deer. Scum like that doesn’t deserve to live. Not one more day. Not even if it’s in a hellhole like this.”

Risa barely kept herself from nodding in agreement. She wasn’t a proponent of the death penalty. At least not in theory. But in this case, with a man like Dryden Kane, she could almost justify strapping him to a table and sticking a needle in his arm.

She pulled her mind from those morbid thoughts. Wisconsin wasn’t a death-penalty state. And wishing for Kane’s death wasn’t going to find him. And it wasn’t going to save Dixie. “Well, deciding whether Kane lives or dies isn’t up to us. All we can do is help find him. Can you think of anyone at all that seemed friendly with Kane?”

Duane’s forehead furrowed and he heaved a sigh as if settling deeply into thought.

Footsteps echoed through the corridor, growing louder, nearer. The barred door slid open and Trent strode through, carrying a cardboard box. Detective Wiley and the two uniformed officers who’d been outside Kane’s cell followed.

She took one look at the determined line of Trent’s lips and pushed herself away from the wall, standing solidly on her feet. “Did you find anything more?”

“Not much.” Trent paused only to sign out at the entrance desk. When he was finished, he turned a probing gaze on her. “How are you holding up?”

The question and his tone showed nothing but concern for her, but she couldn’t help feeling the heavy thump of frustration hit her in the chest once again. Frustration with herself. “I’m fine.”

Trent retrieved his gun and headed for the exit. “Good. Because we’re on our way to the police station.”

She followed him to the door, giving Duane a parting glance.

Forehead still furrowed, the guard shot her a shy grin. “I’ll think on your question, Professor. And if I come up with anybody who might have helped Kane, I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks, Duane.” It was a long shot, but maybe Duane could tell her something useful. She hoped her trip to the prison hadn’t been a total waste. Giving the guard a parting nod, she followed Trent’s broad shoulders out into the night.

TRENT RAKED a hand through his hair and glanced at Rees. She sat slumped in a chair in the area adjacent to the tiny Grantsville police station’s conference room, her eyes riveted on the polished tile floor in front of her. Her complexion was still ghostly, but at least she’d regained a little color since she’d seen the mutilated photo of her sister.

Or maybe it was just the lighting.

Another needle of guilt pricked his conscience. He’d had to let Rees examine the evidence in Kane’s cell, but that didn’t make him feel better about the horror she’d had to endure.

He glanced over his shoulder and into the conference room. Several file boxes sat on the long table. File boxes filled with the crime-scene photos and case reports that had put Kane behind bars the first time. At least Trent didn’t have to wrestle with letting Rees see these testaments of Kane’s evil. There was nothing she could tell him about these case files that he didn’t already carry deep in the shadows of his soul.

He drew himself up. He had to get his mind off Rees. He had work to do and only two hours before he was scheduled to meet with the emergency task force assembled to find Kane. Two hours to come up with ideas on where Kane had gone and proactive strategies for luring him into the open.

He stepped into the conference room and pulled the door shut with a thunk. Turning, he faced Wiley.

The detective glanced at the closed door and arched a blond brow but refrained from comment. Good choice. If he had let one negative comment about Rees cross his lips, Trent probably would have had to throttle him.

The door opened behind him and a slightly built, dark-haired man slipped inside. He nodded to Trent, his eyes lighting up like a puppy who’d been reunited with his owner after a long absence. He thrust an eager hand forward. “Rook, sir. I’m Grantsville’s Chief of Police. It’s an honor to finally meet you.”

Trent shook Rook’s hand. The varied responses he received from local law enforcement personnel never ceased to surprise him. Most of the time his presence was met with skepticism or even downright contempt. But then there were some who saw federal agents in a much more glamorous light. Obviously Rook was among the latter group. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Chief.”

He ducked his head to the side, as if the title embarrassed him. “Please, call me Rook. Or John. My department has only three full-time officers, including me.”

“It’s about time you got here, Rook,” Wiley growled. “Quit pumping Burnell’s hand like some damn bootlicker and sit down. We have work to do.”

Rook meekly did as Wiley ordered. Apparently the young, small-town chief was intimidated by county law enforcement.

Once they were all seated, Wiley zeroed in on Trent, waving a hand at the boxes of old files. “I looked for your profile of Kane, but I couldn’t find it.”

Trent stepped to the table. “There is no written profile.”

“Why not?”

“We don’t want a comprehensive written report leaked to the press. There are too many factors that could be misconstrued, sensationalized. Besides, we want to be able to release only select details. Details that will make the serial offender nervous. Make him take unnecessary risks. Or force him into the open. If reporters get their hands on a written report that contains the entire profile, we lose that ability.”

“Reporters. We set up a media office in Platteville. Hopefully we can keep the bloodsuckers off our backs.” Wiley shuffled through one of the boxes. “So do you need to make up a whole new profile? Won’t that take too long?”

He didn’t have to do too much to reconstruct his original profile. He saw the faces of Kane’s victims in his nightmares every night. And a day didn’t go by that he didn’t think of them and the families they’d left behind. Think of them and curse the fear, the pain, the crippling grief Kane had caused.

Trent picked up the stack of photographs he’d glanced through in Kane’s cell. “I’ll sort through the things we found in his cell and take a look at the files. I’ll be ready by the time the task force gets here.”

He focused on the photographs in his hands. The wedding shot of Kane and Dixie. The seductive snapshots of Farrentina Hamilton. The uneasy tension he’d experienced in the cell descended on his shoulders again. Something was definitely wrong with these pictures.

He set the photos back on the table and reached for the closest box of old case files. He plucked a file from the box, flipped open the manila folder and leafed through the contents. His fingers closed over a stack of crime-scene photos. One of the coeds Kane murdered stared back at him with unseeing blue eyes. Ashley Dalton. A twenty-year-old with two younger sisters and an interest in biochemistry. Her mutilated, naked body glowed white in the photographer’s flash. Her long, blond hair tangled around her face.

He snapped the folder shut and reached for another, the haunting details of Kane’s crimes rushing back to him. Rushing back to him, hell. They had never left. They were as much a part of him as his pounding heart, his straining lungs, his racing mind.

The woman in the second file was Dawn Bertram, a grad student studying psychology. A beautiful girl, Dawn had green eyes, not blue. But long, blond hair framed her lifeless face.

That was it.

That was what bothered him about the photos of Farrentina Hamilton. Her hair. Her brunette hair.

Kane preferred blondes.

Wiley leaned toward him from across the table. “What do you see, Burnell?”

Trent pushed the crime-scene photos toward him. “All of Kane’s victims were blond. It was a big part of his signature. He killed blondes. Only blondes.”

Rook raised his black eyebrows. “A hair-color fetish? What, was his mother blond or something?”

“Not his mother, though she probably inspired a good deal of his hatred. His rage has been building since he was a child. Rage and violent fantasies. We do know that he acted out many of those fantasies on small animals he hunted and captured in his neighborhood.”

“Then where does the blond hair come in?” Rook asked.

“A few months after his mother died of cancer, he married a blonde. She was in college when they met. When she started having affairs with other men, Kane began acting out his violent fantasies on women who looked like her. Fantasies that culminated in murder. It made him feel powerful, in control. Power and control he didn’t have in his normal life. Every time he killed a blond college student, he could fantasize that he was asserting power over the wife who’d humiliated him.”

“Until he got around to finally killing her.”

Trent nodded. He could almost smell the hot tang of blood mixing with the scent of spruce trees and lilac bushes. Fresh blood.

Damn. If he had been a little faster he could have saved Kane’s first wife. Faster identifying Kane. Faster locating him. Faster…

But he hadn’t been. Kane had beaten him by mere hours.

The memory of the worried tremor in Rees’s voice echoed in his ears. He looked down at the mutilated photo of her and Dixie. He couldn’t let Kane beat him this time.

Wiley studied the crime-scene photos and the snapshots of Farrentina Hamilton side by side. “So he wouldn’t be turned on by a brunette.”

Trent snatched his thoughts from past regrets and focused on the case at hand. “No.”

Wiley screwed up his forehead in concentration. “Didn’t I read something in one of the Hamilton woman’s letters about coloring her hair? Maybe she dyed it blond for him.”

Trent skimmed through the letters until he found the one Wiley was referring to. He read aloud. “As you can see, I colored my hair for you, Dryden. The red lingerie looks nice on a brunette, don’t you think?”

Wiley tapped a ballpoint pen on the tabletop. “But that sounds like she dyed her hair brunette for him. Not blond.”

Yes, it did. But that didn’t make sense. A serial killer didn’t change his signature. The emotional need his crime fulfilled was always the same, crime after crime. He might change his modus operandi as he learned more efficient ways of committing his crimes, ways he could avoid getting caught. But he didn’t change the emotional satisfaction, the sexual charge he got out of the act. And Kane fed on his victim’s fear as he exacted revenge. Revenge against the ex-wife who’d humiliated him. The ex-wife with long, blond hair. “The sequence of this hair color change is important. Are there any other photos? Any of Hamilton as a blonde?”

Wiley flicked through the stack of photos they’d found in Kane’s cell. “Yes. This head shot.” He handed a photo to Trent.

Rook leaned over the table to get a glimpse.

In the picture, Farrentina Hamilton’s platinum blond hair flowed over her shoulders. She wore a trendy suit, the style outdated by today’s standards, and she looked appreciably younger than she did in the lingerie shot.

Damn. He didn’t know what to make of this. Kane couldn’t have changed his signature. But if he hadn’t, why had he asked Farrentina Hamilton to dye her hair brunette?

“Dixie.” Dixie was a natural brunette, like Rees, but she had bleached her hair blond for as long as Trent had known her. He picked up the wedding picture and the mutilated picture from the table. In both photos Dixie’s hair was platinum and arranged in ringlets falling to her shoulders. If Kane’s preference had changed to brunettes, why had he married a blonde only a month ago?

Unless Dixie, like Ms. Hamilton, was no longer blond.

Trent’s gaze skimmed the mutilated photograph, landing on Rees. Her happy, wholesome smile, her arms circling her sister, her teddy bears cuddled around them on the bench. His gut tightened. “Professor Madsen might have some answers for us after all.” He stood and walked to the door.

Behind him, Wiley snorted and drummed his pen on a file folder. Trent ignored his obvious disapproval.

Risa was half out of her chair before the door swung open. “Did you find anything?” Desperation tinged her voice and tightened her every muscle. She looked small, delicate among the square, government-issue furniture lining the wall. Feet rooted to the floor, she leaned toward him, straining to find answers in his eyes.

Answers he didn’t have. “Will you come in here?”

Head snapping up and down in a quick nod, she scurried across the reception area and through the door he held open. As she moved into the room, his fingers stroked the small of her back as if of their own accord. The way they always had when he’d ushered her through a door. Back when the two of them were together. Back when he had a right to touch her.

The silky texture of her sweater grazed his fingertips. The warmth of her skin beckoned to him from under the thin silk.

Her body stiffened under his fingers, but she didn’t look at him. Instead, she bolted into the room and took a seat at the table.

What the hell was he doing? He had no right to touch her. No right to let himself fall back into familiar patterns, familiar gestures. He’d given up those rights two years ago. Given them up to keep her safe from just the kind of evil threatening her now.

He closed the door and circled the table. Pushing away memories of holding her, touching her, he folded himself into the chair next to her.

She kept her eyes riveted to the tabletop. Following her gaze, he spotted the stack of file folders hastily shuffled together. The corner of a crime-scene photo peeked from one of the folders. The face of one of Kane’s victims stared up at her. Knotted blond hair, pale skin, sightless eyes.

Trent grabbed the picture, shoved it back inside its folder and slid the stack toward Rook. As far away from Rees as he could get them. “I have some questions for you.”

She looked up at him, lips drawn into a flat, tense line. She clasped her hands together in her lap, her fingers clamped tight as a vise. “Shoot.”

“Has Dixie changed her hair color recently?”

Rees raised her eyebrows, clearly surprised by the question. “Yes. She changed back to her natural color.”

“When?”

“After her wedding. About three weeks ago.”

Wiley ceased tapping his pen for the first time since Rees had entered the room. “So she’s a brunette now?”

“Her hair is about the same shade as mine.”

Trent nodded. Also the same shade as Farrentina Hamilton’s. “Did she say why she dyed it?”

“Oh yes. It was a big deal to her. A big compliment. She said Kane wanted her to be her natural self. He loved her just the way she was.”

His stomach turned at the thought of Kane whispering those words to Dixie, his voice thick with false charm. And judging from the revulsion on Rees’s face, she was fighting the same touch of nausea.

Wiley leaned forward across the scarred tabletop. “So he asked her to dye her hair brunette?”

“That’s what Dixie told me.” She glanced from Wiley to Rook to Trent.

Trent stared down at the tabletop. An icy point of foreboding pricked between his shoulder blades.

“Why do you want to know about Dixie’s hair color?”

Trent raised his gaze to meet hers. “It seems Kane has changed his hair color preference from blond to brunette in the past few weeks.”

She gave him a confused look.

“He asked Farrentina Hamilton to dye her hair brunette too.”

“The woman in the red lingerie,” she said, putting two and two together.

“Yes.”

“And the women he killed before were all blond, right? That was part of his signature.”

“Yes.”

“So what does this mean?”

Trent blew a frustrated breath through tight lips. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. A killer doesn’t just up and change his signature. It doesn’t make sense. Unless…”

“Unless what?”

“Unless hair color was never really part of Kane’s signature.”

“What do you mean?”

He looked at Rees’s long brunette hair, shining under the fluorescent lights. Hair that smelled of lavender. Hair that had once flowed through his fingers and puddled on his pillow like warm silk.

The knife of dread broke skin and delved into muscle. “Have you ever done anything to Kane that he could have misconstrued? Anything that made him angry?”

The jolt that ran through Rees’s body was unmistakable.

He grasped her arm and willed her to face him. “What happened, Rees?”

She drew in a slow, deep breath. “About four months ago I published an article in an academic journal. An article about Kane, though I didn’t use his name. I don’t know how he got a hold of an academic publication in prison, but he did. And he figured the article was about him. He was very angry with me. He didn’t like some of the things I wrote.”

“What did he do?”

“I had one more meeting with him for the book I’m working on. He agreed to see me, but whenever I asked a question, he wouldn’t say a word. He’d just stare.” She closed her eyes and covered her mouth with trembling fingers. Her face grew more pale than death.

“What else, Rees?” he prompted.

She swallowed hard and opened her eyes, latching on to his gaze as if grasping for a lifeline. “That was when he started returning Dixie’s letters. He started courting her.”

A picture formed in his mind. A horrifying picture. Dread plunged to the hilt.

Kane acted out his violent fantasies on women to serve his twisted sense of revenge. He chose victims with the same hair color as the woman he believed had wronged him. Then he played out his game—letting his victim loose in an isolated forest, hunting her down, slitting her from neck to pelvic bone. With each woman he killed, he fantasized he was asserting his power and dominance over the woman who’d humiliated him—the true target of his hatred.

And this time, he feared Kane’s true target was Rees.