Читать книгу Deadly Sight - Cindy Dees - Страница 8

Gray stared in dismay at what had once been a human being but was now an eviscerated mess. Fido whined eagerly, obviously sensing a tasty snack. He tied the dog’s makeshift leash to a tree and approached the gory remains cautiously. The guy’s face was intact enough for him to murmur, “That’s Zimmer.”

It could not be good for their investigation that Jeff’s undercover cult infiltrator was lying in pieces on the ground. What in the hell was going on around here? What had poor Luke stumbled into the middle of? What were he and Sam in the middle of?

“Uhh, Gray,” Sammie Jo replied, “you might want to take a closer look at the body with a light. I’ll cover my eyes for a second.”

Her tone of voice warned him that he wasn’t going to like what he saw. He flashed the light down at Luke’s head, which was just about the only intact part of him, and reeled back, shocked. The guy’s bloody mouth was frozen in a silent scream of terror and agony.

“His wounds don’t look like the tearing a snacking predator might cause.” Sam swallowed thickly and continued, “The edges are clean. Smooth.”

“Like a knife cut?” he asked, startled.

“Exactly.”

“I need to photograph this. If you need to move away while I use the camera flash, feel free.”

She stumbled away in the dark while he got to work snapping pictures from every angle. His hands shook as he wielded the camera. This grisly scene was all too much like another one, years ago—

Violently, he forced the memory from his mind. This was work. He’d seen plenty of blood and guts before. He could do this, dammit. Besides, how would he explain himself to Sammie Jo if he freaked out and ran screaming?

Clenching his jaw with all his strength, he lifted a flap of skin to examine it. Sammie Jo was right. A blade—a sharp one—had made that cut. Luke had been sliced open from rib to rib and hip to hip, then the two horizontal cuts joined with a vertical slash. He’d been laid open like a book. A methodical killer, then. Possible torture. Not a fight or self-defense.

It looked like a lot of the poor guy’s intestines and other organs were missing. Unless Fido or some other critter had eaten them, it would mean Zimmer had been gutted elsewhere. As Gray photographed the ground around the corpse, nowhere near enough blood was present to go along with the crime. Definitely killed elsewhere and dumped here.

The violence of the murder staggered him. Who felt such rage toward Luke Zimmer? Or worse, who would send such a vicious message to others with this killing? Who could the target of such a message be? Zimmer’s boss, maybe? Gray’s alarm ratcheted up another notch. What in the hell had he and Sammie Jo walked into? Who was Proctor?

He continued snapping pictures grimly. There were rope burns around Luke’s wrists. He’d fought for his life against those ropes, for the skin was raw and bloody. Gray reached down gingerly to test the rigidity of the corpse’s clawed hand and arm, and it gave way slightly under pressure.

It took about three hours for rigor mortis to set in and about three days for it to wear off. Luke didn’t stink enough to have been dead for three days, which meant his murder—for what else could this be—had been recent, within four or five hours, probably. And that meant he must have been killed relatively near here, too.

He heard movement nearby and whipped out his pistol.

Sammie Jo’s voice floated out of the dark. “It’s just me. But keep that out.”

It was eerie how she could see in this gloom. And why did she want him to keep his weapon drawn? He searched the woods urgently, but saw only darkness and more darkness. She materialized out of nowhere, and even though he knew she was there, she still startled him.

“I’ve got a blood trail,” she murmured. “Is it possible he wasn’t killed here?”

“It’s probable. Lead on.”

“Should we call the police and let them do the tracking?”

“Not until we have a chance to gather data for ourselves,” he replied. “Once they get involved, we’ll be shut out of the investigation.”

She moved off confidently at an oblique angle to the ridgeline. They’d been walking for several minutes when she asked, “Why on earth would the killer kill someone in an isolated spot and then move the body to another isolated spot to dump it? Why not just leave it where he killed the guy?”

“That’s an excellent question. Maybe the end of this blood trail will tell us.”

No sooner had he said those words than she came to an abrupt halt. His night vision was adapted enough by now for him to stop before he plowed into her, but he didn’t see what she was peering at.

“Road ahead,” she breathed.

“I’ll go first,” he bit out. He moved past her and crept forward slowly. Sure enough, a dirt road materialized, although he had to walk a lot farther to find it than he’d expected. He eased up to its margin and checked both directions. Deserted. “Do you see tire tracks?” he asked her.

“Pass me your camera. The tires look new,” she commented as she pointed the camera, closed her eyes, and snapped a few pictures.

“See anything else?” he asked her.

“Looks like a vehicle parked here. There’s a big cluster of footprints like someone pulled something bulky out of the vehicle here. Then the tracks lead into the woods. I think I see the return set of prints, but they’re hard to distinguish.”

“Amazing.”

“Do you recognize this road?” she asked.

“No, and I’ve studied the maps of the area exhaustively.”

“Google Earth will show it—” she broke off, swearing colorfully. “The guys at Winston Ops will have to mail us a hard copy, won’t they?”

He chuckled at her frustration. He’d banged his head against the technology wall out here a few times, too. “You catch on fast, grasshopper.”

“I’ve seen all I can, here. Now what?”

“Now we hike back to the Bronco, drive to town and call the police,” he answered. The cops were no doubt going to want a statement from them. “We need to come up with a reason for visiting Luke’s place that’ll hold up to a police investigation.”

Sammie answered gaily, “Well, obviously I went to college with him and have come to town to visit the NRQZ at his suggestion. You’re too old to pass for his pal, but I’m not.”

“I’m thirty-five,” he retorted indignantly.

“Like I said. Ancient.”

“How old are you?” he challenged.

“Twenty-eight, Grandpa.”

He’d bet she wouldn’t call him that if he made love to her— He broke off the thought, appalled. Where had that come from?

“I guess folks will believe you and I are a couple,” she commented doubtfully.

He made a worried sound back at her. “I dunno. That’s a bit of a stretch. It’s not like you’re really my type.” He didn’t need supervision to see the hurt that flashed across her face. “Just kidding,” he added hastily.

Huh. Who’d have thought swaggering, leather-clad Sammie Jo had a vulnerable underbelly? Intrigued, he climbed into the Bronco without protesting her opening her own door.

“Okay. So you’re Luke’s friend and I’m your …”

“Fiancé,” she filled in promptly.

The wave of pain that slammed into him was so bad it took his breath away. He’d tried over the years to avoid the pain, to ignore it. But he’d learned the only way to survive it was to go straight into the fire, to experience the hellish agony of it head-on. He took a deep breath and let it wash over him. A person would think that, after five years, it wouldn’t hurt so bad. Granted, the waves didn’t slam into him as often now, nor bury him so deep. But they still hurt just as much.

When the worst of it had passed, he glanced over at his companion. She wanted to pose as his fiancée and not just a girlfriend, huh? Interesting. It suggested a level of intimacy that would take their cover story to a whole different place. He ought to be game to go there. He ought to be all for it, in fact. Those curves of hers practically begged to be touched.

Then the larger problem hit him. “How on earth are we going to explain your—” He broke off.

“Reptilian eyes?” she supplied wryly.

“They don’t look reptilian,” he retorted indignantly. “Insectoid, maybe, but not reptilian.”

Thankfully, he’d judged her correctly. She laughed at the remark. “Seriously,” he continued. “We can’t waltz into the police station with your eyes exposed. And at this time of night, they’ll think you’re stoned if you wear sunglasses the whole time.”

That made her giggle. She had a great laugh. “I’ve got it covered, Sparky. I wear brown contact lenses in public.”

“All right, then. You’re not an alien, and we’re getting married. Have we set a date?”

“I doubt the police will ask, but no. We’re trying to figure out where to live first,” she answered thoughtfully. “Are we considering moving to the NRQZ?”

He liked that idea. It would give them an excuse to poke around the local area openly. “Can you pull off a back-to-nature hippie persona?” he asked her.

“I can be anything you want me to be, big guy,” she answered flippantly.

For some reason, the comment set his teeth on edge. “How about you just be yourself with me? I don’t need or want pretense from my women.”

She looked shocked and fell silent as he guided the car to the Spruce Hollow gas station and its no-kidding, working pay phone. He mentally kicked himself for making that “my women” comment. No sense in leading the poor girl on.

He dialed the number of the police placarded on the side of the pay phone and reported Luke’s death. He was not surprised when he was ordered to stay right where he was and wait for a deputy to come meet them.

The remainder of the night went predictably. He and Sammie Jo described arriving at the cabin to find their “friend” gone and his dog bloody. They gave detailed instructions to the sheriff as to where to find Luke’s body. They followed a deputy back to the sheriff’s office in the Bronco and were ordered to come inside and make statements.

Fido had arrived at the police station to be held as evidence until a forensic pathologist from Charleston could come down and collect the dog to examine. He could be seen jumping around inside playing with a deputy, already on his way to being spoiled rotten. As Gray stared at the well-lit building, he glanced over at Sammie Jo in concern. She was in the middle of putting contact lenses in her eyes. “Are you going to be okay in there? It’s pretty bright.”

“Artificial light isn’t as bad as sunlight. I’ll survive. Gemma had these contacts specially made for me. They act like miniature sunglasses. I just can’t wear them for more than a few hours at a time.”

When they stepped inside, he rather missed the odd, but uniquely Sammie Jo, gold color of her eyes. In spite of the lenses, she squinted heavily and looked like she was in pain as they were seated at desks, pads of paper and pens shoved in front of them, and told to write down their statements.

He had a hard time concentrating on his because a deputy spent the whole damned time hitting on Sammie Jo. She rebuffed him steadily, but the guy just wouldn’t catch a clue. By the time Gray laid down his pen, his fist ached to punch something.

When Sammie Jo finished her statement, Gray stood up immediately and moved to her side. “C’mon, sweetheart. It’s been a long night. Let’s get back to our place and get some sleep.” Glaring at the deputy, he placed a possessive arm across her shoulder and pulled her to his side.

She was tall enough that her curves fit against him nicely. Her body was lithe and vibrant against his, softer than he’d expected, and a surge of possessiveness flashed through him. Stunned, he walked her to the Bronco and deposited her in the passenger seat in silence.

As he climbed in and started the car, she asked, “Are you okay?”

“Dim-witted bastard,” he muttered. “Couldn’t he see you were with me?”

As she popped out the lenses and stored them in their little plastic case, she commented, “Why, Grayson Pierce. Are you jealous of Barney?”

“Who?”

“Barney Fife. From The Andy Griffith Show.”

“Not familiar with it.”

“Good grief, man. You’ve lived a freakishly sheltered life! We must rectify this flaw in your upbringing!”

He doubted his grandmother would agree that his upbringing was flawed. At least not until his American mother divorced his British father and hauled herself and her son back to the States to live. He’d gone straight into high school and hadn’t had time or inclination for American television. He’d had enough trouble making the transition to this culture without trying to master that aspect of it.

“Did you get any good pictures of the body?” she asked.

“You tell me. You’re the one with supersight.” He passed her the digital camera and she peered at the pictures closely.

“God almighty, this is nasty,” she muttered. “Somebody really had it in for this guy. I’d love to blow these up on a high-definition computer monitor and have a look at them.”

“At a glance, the wounds strike me as too surgical to have been inflicted in uncontrolled rage. I think the killer wanted to send someone a message.”

She looked up at him sharply. “It would be a heck of message. Who would the killer send it to?”

“That’s what we have to find out.”

“Hey, I’m a desk jockey. I don’t do the whole dangerous, chase-after-psychopathic-murderers thing.”

He glanced over at her in surprise. “With your eyesight? I’d think Winston Enterprises would put you out in the field nonstop.”

“Doc Jones has been keeping me close to home for testing, and that’s fine with me. I’m a big ole chicken when it comes to scary stuff.”

Somehow he doubted that. She’d been fearless trekking through the woods earlier. He commented dryly, “Welcome to the big leagues, kid.”

“And what league is that, exactly? You’re a spy, right? Who for? Please tell me you have tons of field experience and aren’t in over your head here.”

“Sorry. I can neither confirm nor—”

“Oh, stop,” she interrupted. “If we’re going to be working together, you might as well tell me. Besides, if my life’s in danger, I have a right to know who I’m depending on to keep me alive.”

Depending on. The words staggered him. No. No! She mustn’t! Panic ripped through him. He failed the people who depended on him! He couldn’t be responsible for more violence, more death …

He realized he was about to rip the steering wheel out of its column and forcibly relaxed his fingers. He couldn’t work with her if she was expecting to depend on him. She had to get out of here. Far, far away from him. He’d call Jeff when they got back to the motel and tell him to pull her off this op.

How he managed to guide the Bronco the rest of the way back to their motel, he wasn’t quite sure. It all passed in a haze of terror. He parked the vehicle and turned off the ignition. “You need to leave. Now. I’ll call Jeff and have him send a jet for you in the morning.”

“I don’t bail out on people because the going gets tough, Gray.”

“This isn’t about abandoning me. It’s about your safety. I won’t risk your life—”

“Really. Stop. I realize you’re some sort of mega-protective, do-the-right-thing type, but get over it. I’m not leaving.”

He closed his mouth on his next protest because it threatened to become a scream of agony. She didn’t understand. He couldn’t be responsible for her. Not for anybody ever again. He fought his way back to a modicum of sanity by focusing on Sammie Jo. He replayed her protest in his mind. A faint note of desperation in her voice had caught his attention. Something that said no matter how dangerous it got here, she’d rather face this than face whatever waited for her back home.

On a hunch he asked, “What are you running from?”

That stopped her cold in the act of pushing her car door open for herself. “I beg your pardon?”

He took advantage of her distraction to go around and open it for her. He took only a single step back, which forced her to slide past him at a distance of about two inches. When they were chest to chest, he repeated, “Who are you running from, Sammie Jo?”

She hesitated for an instant and then moved past him to the bungalow. As he turned on the lights, she slid a pair of sunglasses over her eyes. He stared at her featureless gaze expectantly.

“Dang, you’re good,” she commented neutrally.

“Well?”

“I just broke up with a ginormous jerk, and I happen to find a change of scenery refreshing at the moment.”

“Is he violent?”

“Possibly.”

“Psychotic?”

“Definitely.”

His heart was pounding far too hard. She needed protection, and he couldn’t possibly do it. She mustn’t depend on him. “Anything else I should know about you?” he asked tautly.

“Hey, you’re the one with all the secrets, not me,” she declared.

And that was how he planned to keep it. There were some things he would never speak of. Ever.

“Now what?” she asked, startling him.

“I don’t understand.”

“Our only lead on what this Proctor guy’s up to is dead. How do you want to proceed with investigating his cult or whatever it is?”

“After I put you on a plane in the morning, I plan to drive up into the mountains and find that road again. Then I’ll follow it and see where it leads.”

“Why wait till morning? I see great at night. I’ll be your eyes.”

And apparently, she was bright-eyed and bushytailed at nearly 3:00 a.m. Far be it from him to admit that he was beat and would rather sleep. He picked up the car keys resolutely. “Let’s go, then.”

Finding the dirt road wasn’t hard. His sense of direction was unerring and he went right to it. But it got weird when Sammie Jo announced from the passenger seat that she’d spotted the tire tracks leaving the drop-off point. All he saw was gravel stretching away into the dark in the headlights.

“Slow down,” she ordered, leaning forward in her seat. “Okay. Go straight ahead through the intersection.”

They followed the tracks for maybe a mile. Then they ran into a paved road and the tracks turned right. But the dust had worn off the tires in a few hundred yards, and Sammie Jo shook her head in disgust. “Lost the tracks. Drat. That vehicle could have gone anywhere from here.”

“Let’s head back to the motel and get some rest. We can talk to the sheriff tomorrow and see what he’s come up with.”

“You think he’ll work with you?” she asked doubtfully. “He seemed the type to resent outsiders, and he wasn’t exactly friendly to us. Now, Deputy Barney seemed all kinds of eager to work with me. I could probably pump him for some—”

“No.” She looked far too pleased at his knee-jerk response. He scowled. “Have you got any better ideas?”

“Well, yeah,” she answered. “We have to stop being outsiders.”

“Come again?”

“Let’s move into the area. Settle down.”

“What are you talking about?” He was lost, and he considered himself to be a reasonably bright fellow.

“Think about it. We’ve already established ourselves as a couple. I mentioned to the sheriff that we’re thinking about moving off the grid and into this area. So let’s rent a little place. Meet the neighbors. They’ll be a lot more likely to talk to us than if we’re tourists passing through.”

The idea of setting up house sent figurative butcher knives slashing through his body. It was a cover, dammit. Just a cover. An act. Lord knew he’d become a hell of an actor over the past few years. He could put on this fake skin and live in it for a while if he had to.

“Where do you suggest we move to?” he asked.

“Spruce Hollow, of course.”

“It’s a bold gambit.”

She grinned over at him. “Are you in?”

“Your middle name is trouble, isn’t it?” he grumbled.

“With a capital T. Just leave it to me. I’ll set up the rest of our cover tomorrow. All I need you to do is get some of the kind of clothes you normally wear.”

“That I normally … What are you talking about?”

“You look like a pig dressed up as a showgirl.”

“Excuse me?” he exclaimed.

“Well, you don’t look like an actual pig. You’re quite a hottie, in point of fact. But you look totally uncomfortable in those jeans and that ridiculous flannel shirt. If you’re going to blend in, you have to look like yourself.”

He frowned. “I’d have to make a trip to a real city to shop.”

“You do that and I’ll take care of the rest. By the time you get back, I’ll have all the arrangements made.”

He stared at her in shock. Steamroller, thy name is Sammie Jo.

He got back to the motel room after his road trip to Charleston at about noon and found a note on the kitchen table.

G.—I took the liberty of packing your stuff—nice silk boxer shorts, BTW. Check out of the motel and meet me at this address. And for God’s sake, wear some uptight rich-guy clothes.

—S.

She’d checked out his underwear? Vixen. He’d have to return the favor sometime. He noticed belatedly that the sticky note was pasted to a hand-drawn map. What had she gone and done?

Bemused, he followed her instructions to Spruce Hollow’s one and only side street and pulled up in front of a one-story brick ranch house that looked straight out of the 1950s. Oh, God. He couldn’t do this.

The house was low and rectangular, nothing like the neat, craftsman-style home that flashed into his head with blinding clarity. A home with blood everywhere. Death. And that horrible, primal scream that wouldn’t stop.