Читать книгу Collecting Evidence - Rita Herron - Страница 6

Special Agent Dylan Acevedo pressed the blade of the knife against Frank Turnbull’s fleshy neck.

“Go ahead, kill me,” Turnbull muttered.

Dylan jabbed the blade into his skin, a smile curving his mouth as a drop of blood seeped to the surface. He should just do it.

The man deserved to die.

The images of the women the serial killer had brutally murdered—all young Native Americans in their twenties—flashed into Dylan’s head in sickening clarity. Their delicate throats slashed, bodies left exposed in the rugged terrain of the desert, blood dripping as if to lure the wild animals to feed on their remains.

Young lives lost for no reason except to fulfill the sick cravings of a demented mind.

Dylan glanced down at the knife in his hand. The knife that had belonged to Turnbull. The same kind he’d used to cut the women’s throats.

It was only fitting he die by the same instrument.

With his throat sliced open by a Ute ceremonial knife made from white quartz and Western Cedar, the kind of knife used to cut the umbilical cord of a newborn or to harvest herbs for sacred ceremonies.

Another important component of Turnbull’s MO was his calling card—he’d left a piece of thunderwood by each victim. Another dig to the Ute people who had a religious aversion to handling thunderwood—a piece of bark from a tree struck by lighting. The Utes believed that thunder beings would strike down any Ute Indian who touched it.

Turnbull’s swollen eye twitched with menace and a dare. A challenge to Dylan to feel the thrill of the kill, Turnbull seemed to say silently.

Dylan clenched his jaw. He wanted to see fear in Turnbull’s eyes. Wanted to hear him scream as his victims had. Hear him beg for his life.

Instead Turnbull laughed, a hideous deep growl that punctured the night like a wild animal just before it tore into a smaller one’s carcass.

“You’re just like me,” Turnbull mumbled. “I can see the evil in your eyes.”

Dylan’s fingers tightened on the knife handle. At that moment he did crave the kill. But his need was driven by revenge and justice, not depraved indifference.

“Dylan, don’t…”

His brother Miguel’s voice rumbled from behind him. Miguel, who was a saint compared to him. He’d been an altar boy while Dylan had been the troublemaker.

They hadn’t always gotten along, but as adults they’d forged a bond and developed a healthy respect for one another’s differences. Miguel was a forensic scientist, and they often worked together on cases, relying on each other’s expertise.

Miguel’s footfalls echoed on the ground as he approached. “Come on, Dylan. We’ve got him. Let’s take him in and make him pay for what he did. Make him face the families of the victims.”

Dylan’s hand trembled as his gaze once again locked with the monster. Then he saw the fear in the man’s eyes. Turnbull wanted him to kill him.

Because he didn’t want to face the families.

Miguel was right. Having to look into the pain-filled eyes of the parents of the women he’d hurt would be his worst punishment.

His hand slipped, caught the skin just enough to cause a flesh wound, then he gestured for Miguel to cuff the bastard.

HOURS LATER, after their debriefing and a press conference to announce they’d finally arrested the ruthless Ute killer, Dylan walked into the Vegas bar. All he wanted was to purge his rage, and drown out the images of the girls he hadn’t been able to save.

Just like he hadn’t saved his fifteen-year-old sister, Teresa, when she’d been gunned down in a gangrelated drive-by.

Suddenly, the most exotic creature he’d ever seen approached him. Long black hair that hung down to her waist swayed seductively as she walked, her dark chocolate eyes raking over him appreciatively.

She was Ute, fit the profile of the victims he’d fought so hard to obtain justice for. Could have become number eleven on Turnbull’s kill card. Yet here she was, alive and smiling at him.

“Agent Acevedo,” she said in a purrlike voice with the faint accent of her heritage. “I saw you on the news. Thank you for arresting that killer.”

He shrugged. “I only wish we’d caught him sooner.”

Wise, sympathetic eyes met his, along with a sultriness that made his body go rock hard and achy.

He was mesmerized by her beauty, wanted her naked and in his bed, soothing the heat and rage in his soul.

When she finished her shift, they talked for hours. Her name was Aspen Meadows. She was working as a cocktail waitress while earning a teaching degree.

Finally he escorted her to her apartment. Before he closed the door, she was in his arms and he was tearing off her clothes. He took her on the floor, against the wall, on the bed and in the shower.

A week of lovemaking couldn’t assuage the pain or guilt in his chest. He didn’t deserve her. Didn’t deserve to be loved or soothed when he’d failed so many.

But he stole the hours and days anyway, desperate for a slice of heaven to ease the hell he lived with daily.

He knew it wouldn’t last, couldn’t last, though. A phone call the following Friday night reminded him too well.

Another murder. An undercover assignment.

He had to go.

He kissed her goodbye and left while she was sleeping. He wouldn’t see her again. He couldn’t.

His work put anyone he cared about in danger.

And he had enough dead girls haunting him to last him forever.