BEVERLY BARTON
THE FIFTH
VICTIM

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

AVON

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in the U.S.A by Kensington Publishing Corp.

New York, NY, 2003

Copyright © Beverly Barton 2003

Beverly Barton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks.

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9781847560636

Ebook Edition © May 2012 ISBN: 9780007287413

Version: 2018-05-29

To my precious niece, Ja’ Net Horton, who is as beautiful inside as she is outside. I remember the first time I saw her when she was a little beauty of eight and I was dating her uncle. I knew then that I wanted a little girl who looked like her – blond curls, blue eyes, and a sweet smile.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Epilogue

Read on for an exclusive extract of Beverly’s Silent Killer, out now.

About the Author

By the same author

About the Publisher

Prologue

Dark. Cold. Predawn quiet. Wind whipped through the tall, ancient trees in the forest. Soon the sun would ascend over Scotsman’s Bluff. He was prepared, ready to strike the moment the morning light hit the altar. Once the deed was done, once he had sacrificed the first victim, the ritual would begin anew. As soon as he tasted her sweet life’s blood, he would no longer feel the winter’s cold. Her blood would warm him, empower him, prepare him for the others who would lead him to the most important transposition of his life. All these years he had diligently searched for perfection, for the most powerful, all the while building his strength, bit by bit, with lesser mortals.

He gazed down at the naked girl tied to the wooden altar, her long blond hair flowing about her angelic face as the frigid wind caressed her luscious body. Her eyelids fluttered. Good. That meant the drug he’d given her was wearing off and she would be awake for the ceremony. He loved to see the look on their faces—the shock and horror—when they realized what was about to happen to them.

Flinging back his dark cape, he smiled. There was no need to hurry. He could take his time afterwards, savor the kill for as long as he liked. No one in their right mind would be out in the woods at dawn in January. Only he and the girl.

He laid the ornately carved wooden case atop the girl’s trembling body, opened it and removed the heavy sword, then placed the case on the ground. Gazing up at the sky, he waited.

She whimpered, but the gag in her mouth kept her from doing more. He glanced down at her, ran his hand over her naked breasts and lifted the sword toward the heavens.

A pale pink blush spread out over Scotsman’s Bluff, only a hint of color in the dark sky.

“Soon, my little lamb. Soon.”

Languidly, with tendrils of light reaching farther and farther into the sky, the sun welcomed the dawn of a new day. He jerked the gag from her mouth. She screamed. He brandished the sword and spoke the sacred words in an ancient tongue.

From the depths of hell, hear me and do my bidding. Let this sacrifice please thee. I bid thee to accomplish my will and desire.

He brought the sword down, down, down. From throat to navel, he split her open. Her sightless eyes stared up at the towering treetops overhead.

He wiped the sword with a soft cloth and returned the weapon to its bed, then stuffed the bloodstained cloth into a plastic bag and dumped the bag into the case. With her blood still warm, he lowered his head until his lips touched the gaping wound. He licked, then sucked, filling his mouth with her blood and energizing himself with her life force before it escaped.

Genevieve Madoc woke with a start, sweat drenching her body, soaking her flannel gown. Her heart beat at a dangerously accelerated pace as she shot straight up in bed.

“Oh, God! Oh, God!” she moaned as she recalled her dream, a shadowy, terrifying vision of death.

Uncontrollable tremors racked her body. She hated these moments directly following a revelation, when she was weak and vulnerable. Drained of all energy, barely able to move. She fell backward; her head hit the pillow. She would call Jazzy for help once she regained enough strength to reach out to the nightstand for the telephone. But for now she would lie still and wait. And pray the images would not return. Sometimes the sight came to her in dreams, but just as often she experienced it while wide awake.

Rising from the handwoven rug in front of the fireplace, Drudwyn’s keen eyes searched the darkness, seeking his mistress. He uttered a concerned whimper.

“I’ll be all right,” she told him, her voice a delicate whisper. Then she spoke to him telepathically, assuring him that she was in no danger. The big, mixed-breed animal lumbered to the side of the bed, then slumped to the wooden floor. She sensed his mood and knew his protective instincts had automatically kicked in. The dog she had raised from a mongrel puppy considered himself her bodyguard. Like she, Drudwyn’s heritage—the results of a wolf having mated with a German shepherd/Lab-mix mutt—made him unique. Her ancestry, comprised of Scots-Irish, English, and Chero-kee might not be all that uncommon in these parts, but the gift of sight she had inherited from her grandmother was.

As she lay in bed, waiting for her strength to renew, she couldn’t help thinking of the vision she’d had. Out there somewhere, a young woman had been murdered. Genny knew it as surely as she knew her own name. She had not seen the girl’s face, only her flawless naked body and the huge sword that had sliced her open as if she were a ripe melon. Bile rose from Genny’s stomach and burned a path up her esophagus to her throat.

No, please, I can’t be sick. Not now. I don’t have the strength to crawl out of bed. She willed the nausea under control.

Who could have committed such a heinous crime? What sort of monster would sacrifice a human being?

Her cousin Jacob had mentioned that there had been several animal sacrifices in the area—four since Thanksgiving. Had those been nothing more than a precursor to the killing of a human?

After she called Jazzy for help, she would call Jacob. It would be too late for him to do anything to help the woman, but as the county sheriff, it would be his job to investigate the murder.

What will you tell him? Genny asked herself. If you explain that you’ve had another vision, only this one far more gruesome than any you’ve had before, he’ll understand. He’s your blood-kin. He won’t dismiss your vision as nothing more than a dream.

Fifteen minutes later, Genny forced herself to ease to the edge of the bed. She lifted the telephone receiver and dialed Jazzy’s number. The phone rang five times before a harsh voice answered.

“Who the hell’s calling at this ungodly hour?”

“Jazzy?”

“Genny, is that you?”

“Yes. Please—”

“I’m on my way. Just stay put.”

“Thank you.”

The moment she heard the dial tone, Genny punched in Jacob’s home phone number. He picked up on the second ring. Always an early riser, as was she, her cousin was probably in the middle of preparing his breakfast.

“Butler here,” he said, his voice gruff and deeply baritone.

“Jacob, it’s Genny. Please, come to my house … now.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’ve had a dream … one of my visions.”

“Are you all right?”

“No, but I will be. I’ve called Jazzy. She’ll be here soon. But I must tell you …” Her voice suddenly failed her.

“Tell me what?”

She cleared her throat. “Someone has been murdered. A young woman. I’m sure you’ll find her body in Cedar Tree Forest, not far from here. I saw … through the killer’s eyes … I saw—” She sucked in a deep breath. “He watched the sunrise over Scotsman’s Bluff.”

“Are you sure, Genny? Are you positive it wasn’t just a nightmare?”

“I’m positive. It’s too late to save her, but you can find her body and perhaps find some evidence of who killed her—if you can get there soon. I think I can guide you to the exact spot.”

“Ah, shit …” Jacob murmured under his breath.

“Jacob?”

“Hmm?”

“He tied her to an altar of some sort and sacrificed her. I—I think he drank her blood.”

“God damn son of a bitch!”

Chapter 1

FBI Special Agent Teri Nash glanced at the fax in her hand. A letter and a photograph. While waiting for Dallas to shower and shave, she’d sat down at his cluttered desk in the corner of the living room. The fax had come in while she’d been relaxing with a gin-and-tonic. Dallas and she hadn’t dated in several years, and she was actually involved with a profiler at the Bureau, but she still considered Dallas a good friend. Since his niece’s death eight months ago, she’d tried to keep tabs on her old lover. Although he’d handled Brooke’s brutal murder as he did everything else—with little emotion and iron control—she’d seen past his steely facade to the pain beneath. Once he’d returned to FBI headquarters in D.C. after Brooke’s funeral, he’d begun a personal search for any information that might lead him to his niece’s killer. Using the Bureau’s vast resources for unofficial use had become a bone of contention between Dallas and the assistant director of the Criminal Investigation Division. Although Dallas and Tom Rutherford disliked each other personally, Tom had allowed Dallas a lot of slack. Teri wondered for how much longer?

She read the fax for the third time. The message was in response to a letter Dallas had sent out to local law enforcement officials nationwide. This was the seventh such response in the past few months, but she had a sinking feeling that this was the one he’d been waiting for ever since Brooke’s murder. Teri didn’t want to look at the faxed photo again. Once had been more than enough. It wouldn’t be easy forgetting the sight of the young blond girl with her body sliced wide open. Teri shivered.

The sheriff of Cherokee County, Tennessee, had reported what appeared to be a sacrificial killing in his county early this morning. The details of her death were practically identical to those of Brooke’s horrific murder in Mobile, Alabama, in May of last year.

As Teri finished scanning the information again, she shook her head and sighed. The minute Dallas saw this fax, he’d be off and running. On some sentimental, protective level, she wished she could just dump the fax in the garbage and pretend it didn’t exist. Even though her love affair with her fellow agent had been short-lived and had ended three years ago, she still had strong feelings for him. The poor guy had been through enough, had followed too many dead-end leads these past few months. She hated to see him go off on another wild-goose chase, searching for an elusive serial killer. That is, if there was a serial killer. Dallas had come up with his own theory that there was a barbaric serial killer on the loose. Besides, she wasn’t sure how many more vacation days he could take before he used them all up. Or how much longer Rutherford would put up with Dallas’s absenteeism.

Dallas Sloan, his dark blond hair damp from his shower, emerged from the bathroom adjacent to the small bedroom in his three-room efficiency apartment. Teri sucked in a deep breath. Damn, the guy still took her breath away. Wearing nothing but his white briefs, he exposed his tall, lean body for her perusal. A dusting of brown hair covered his legs and arms and created a V over the center of his muscular chest. Teri forced her gaze from his body to his face. He grinned at her. Wickedly.

“Just enjoying the scenery,” she told him. “Not buying the property.”

“What have you got in your hand?” he asked as he stared point-blank at the fax.

“This?” She held up the two sheets of paper as if they were a trophy. “It’s a fax.”

“Lusting after my body is one thing, honey, but reading my mail is something else altogether.” Dallas rummaged around in his closet, pulled out a pair of well-worn jeans, put them on, then removed a cream knit sweater from the chest of drawers and yanked it down over his head. “Who’s the fax from?”

Teri walked over to where he’d sat on the bed and was putting on his socks. “It’s from Sheriff Jacob Butler in Cherokee County, Tennessee.”

Dallas slid his feet into his boots, tied the laces, and then glanced up at Teri. “Is it about—”

“He’s had what appears to be a sacrificial killing in his county.” Teri held out the fax. “This morning.”

Dallas grabbed the papers out of her hand, scanned them quickly, then cursed under his breath. “I need to call him—now.” Dallas stood. “Look, honey, why don’t you go on and meet the others. If this is what it appears to be, I’ll be taking a flight out tonight for Tennessee.”

Teri grabbed his arm. “Are you sure you want to do this again? So far, none of the reports you’ve received turned out to be—”

“This is different. I can tell the similarities to Brooke’s death are obvious just from the fax.”

“Even so, with all the old reports on sacrificial killings you’ve compiled, none of the victims had even one thing in common, nothing to link any of them to one specific killer, other than they were all sacrificed.”

“There’s a link,” Dallas said. “We just haven’t figured it out yet. Linc only started work on a profile for me last week, and since he’s doing it on his own time and trying to keep Rutherford off his back, it’ll take time.”

“Do you have any vacation or sick days left?” She knew better than to continue arguing with a man who couldn’t be persuaded.

“Three.”

“And what if this killing turns out to be the one you’ve been waiting for, a new piece of the puzzle?”

“I’ll take a leave of absence.”

“Yeah, that’s what I figured.”

“I can count on you and Linc, can’t I?”

“Unofficially.”

Dallas kissed her. No passion. Just a thank-you gesture. “You don’t have to wait around. Go ahead and leave now. I’ll call you on your cell phone if I take a flight out tonight.”

Teri caressed his cheek. “I hope this is the one.”

He didn’t bother walking her to the door, so she let herself out, then paused in the doorway. She sighed. He’d already forgotten all about her. He picked up the telephone and dialed the 865 area code and then the number for the sheriff’s office.

“Yes, this is Special Agent Dallas Sloan, with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’d like to speak to Sheriff Butler.”

Teri eased the door closed, walked up the hall and down the flight of stairs to the first floor of the apartment building. There’s nothing for you here, she told herself. Hoping Dallas would change his mind and want something permanent with her was nothing but a pipe dream. She had to remove those last fragments of hope—otherwise her relationship with Linc would never work out the way she wanted it to.

“It’s gonna snow. I feel it in my bones,” Sally Talbot said as she tossed another log into the cast-iron potbellied stove.

“The weatherman on TV said sleet and rain,” Ludie Smith corrected. “Who should I listen to—your old bones or an educated man who knows all about cumulus clouds and dew points and heat indexes?”

“I swear, Ludie, ever since you took that adult education class at the junior college last fall, you done gone and got all uppity on me.”

“Me uppity?” With large, expressive black eyes, Ludie glared at Sally. “You’re the one who’s been acting like rich folks ever since Jazzy had that white siding put on the outside of this shack of yours.”

“Are you calling my house a shack? What do you call that place of yours—a palace?”

“I call it a cottage,” Ludie replied. “That’s what I call it. A cottage. Like one of them pretty little places you see on calendars and in the movies about the English countryside before World War Two.”

“Now what would an old Cherokee squaw from the hills of Tennessee know about the English countryside? Besides, your house ain’t no cottage. It’s a four-room, wooden sharecropper’s shack, the same as mine.”

“Well, Miss Know-It-All, I know as much about the English countryside as you do. And who are you? Just a crazy old white heifer from the Tennessee hills.”

Jazzy Talbot stood in the doorway that separated her aunt Sally’s kitchen from the living room where Sally and her best friend Ludie stood arguing together as they’d done as far back as Jazzy could remember. Any outsiders listening to the two old women would swear they hated each other, when in actuality the exact opposite was true. Ludie and Sally had been friends all their lives, but neither would ever admit how much they truly loved each other. Their favorite form of entertainment seemed to be debating a wide variety of subjects—everything from the weather to the proper way to cook collard greens.

Jazzy cleared her throat. Both women hushed immediately and turned to face her. Rawboned, with big hands and feet, Sally stood nearly six feet tall, possessed a shock of short white hair and ice blue eyes. With black eyes and steel gray hair, Ludie, on the other hand, was barely five feet tall and round as a butterball. Jazzy had no idea exactly how old either woman was, but her best guess would be that her aunt and Ludie had both passed their seventieth birthday.

“How long you been here?” Sally asked, a broad smile on her face.

“Just got here. Didn’t you hear the Jeep?”

“She was too busy caterwauling,” Ludie said. “She thinks it’s gonna snow, but the weatherman said plainly that—”

“It’s going to sleet and ice over first, then snow,” Jazzy said.

Both women stared at her with round eyes and wrinkled brows.

“How do you—you’ve seen Genny today, haven’t you?” Sally lifted another piece of wood, then stuffed it into the stove. After shutting the door and trapping the fire inside, she wiped her hands off on her faded jeans.

“Did Genny say it’s going to snow?” Ludie asked.

Jazzy nodded. “I heard her tell Jacob that they’d better go over the crime scene with a fine-tooth comb now because of the bad weather we’ll get tonight. She thinks it’ll be really rough.”

“Then we’d better get ready for it,” Sally said. “That gal ain’t never wrong about the weather. She’s just like her granny. Melva Mae had the sight, too.”

“Ain’t it awful about that poor little Susie Richards.” Ludie shook her head. “What kind of person would do such a thing to anybody, least of all a seventeen-year-old girl?”

“Why were you up at Genny’s?” Sally asked. “Did she have another spell?”

Jazzy nodded. “She saw the Richards girl being killed. But that information is not to be broadcast by either of you.”

Ludie keened. “Lord have mercy!”

“She called Jacob and told him where he could find Susie’s body. Now, he’s got a murder case to solve and a county filled with scared people.”

“Jacob ain’t got the manpower or the up-to-date equipment to handle a crime scene investigation.” Sally headed toward the kitchen. “You staying for supper, gal, or you heading back to your place before the weather turns bad on us?”

“Guess I’ll head home,” Jazzy replied. “I just stopped by to see if you needed anything. With you out here so far away from town, you might not be able to make it in to Cherokee Pointe for several days if there’s ice under the snow.”

“Got all I need.” Sally called from the kitchen. “Want a cup of coffee before you leave?”

“Coffee and a piece of that custard pie I saw on the counter.” Jazzy winked at Ludie, knowing full well that Ludie had baked the pie and brought it over. Sally wasn’t much of a cook—never had been. If it hadn’t been for Ludie’s good cooking, Jazzy figured she’d have grown up on nothing but cornbread, fried potatoes, and whatever greens were in season. Ludie had a real talent for cooking and worked at Jazzy’s restaurant in town. Last year, she’d cut back from full-time to only a few days a week.

When Jazzy and Ludie joined Sally in the kitchen, Sally had already sliced the pie and set three plates and forks on the table. She lifted an old metal coffeepot from the stove and poured steaming black coffee into mismatched earthenware mugs.

As the three sat around the yellow oilcloth-topped table, Sally and Ludie got awfully quiet. Jazzy had an uneasy feeling that there was something wrong. Something other than the fact that there had been a murder in Cherokee County yesterday.

“Business good?” Sally asked.

“As good as it usually is in January,” Jazzy replied. “We’ve got a handful of tourists staying in the cabins and a few more stopping by the restaurant on their way to Pigeon Forge and Gatlinburg.”

“It’ll pick up in the spring,” Ludie said. “Always does.”

“I’m ready for spring, myself.” Sally sipped on her coffee.

“Me too.” Ludie sighed. “Nothing like spring birds chirping and buttercups and tulips blooming.”

Jazzy caught her aunt and Ludie exchanging peculiar glances. “All right, what’s going on?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sally stared up at the bead-board ceiling.

“Might as well tell her,” Ludie said. “I’m surprised she hasn’t already heard.”

“Heard what?” A tight knot formed in the pit of Jazzy’s stomach.

“Just ’cause he’s back don’t mean you gotta have anything to do with him.” Sally skewered Jazzy with a warning glare. “If he comes sniffing around, send him packing. That’s what you’ll do if you’re smart. He ain’t no good. Never was.”

“Who are you talking about—my God! You don’t mean that—”

“Heard it in town this morning, before the news about the Richards gal got out,” Ludie said. “Jamie Upton showed up at the farm two days ago, and his granddaddy done brought out the fatted calf to celebrate the prodigal’s return.”

“Tell her the rest,” Sally said.

Ludie hung her head and avoided eye contact with Jazzy. “He’s brought home a woman with him.”

“A wife?” Jazzy asked.

“A fiancée,” Ludie replied.

“He’s been engaged before,” Jazzy said. “That doesn’t mean anything. You know how Jamie is.”

“I know he ain’t worth shooting.” Sally finished off her coffee, then rose and poured herself another cup.

Jazzy toyed with the piece of pie. She loved Ludie’s pies but knew that if she took a bite now it would taste like cardboard in her mouth. It wasn’t that she was still in love with Jamie. Actually she wasn’t sure she’d ever loved him. But she’d wanted him. God, how she’d wanted him. He’d been her first, back when she’d been young and foolish enough to think Big Jim Upton’s only grandson would marry the likes of her, a white-trash bastard raised by a poor, eccentric old woman half the town thought was crazy.

Jazzy rose to her feet. “I’d better be heading into town. Can I give you a ride home, Ludie?”

“Goodness no. You know my place ain’t a quarter of a mile from here.”

“But with a killer on the loose—”

“Got my revolver in my coat pocket, as always,” Ludie said. “You know I don’t go nowhere without it.”

Ludie carried an old Smith & Wesson that had belonged to her father; and Sally toted a shotgun. A couple of old kooks, that was what most folks thought.

Jazzy hugged Ludie, then turned to her aunt. “Keep your doors locked.”

“I intend to,” Sally assured her. “I’ve got my shotgun, and I’ll bring Peter and Paul in before nightfall, like I always do in the dead of winter. Them dogs ain’t gonna let nothing slip up on me.”

Five minutes later Jazzy headed her Jeep down the mountain toward Cherokee Pointe, all the while her mind swirling with memories of Jamie Upton. His smile. His laughter. The way he called her darlin’. The little presents he’d given her over the years—ever since she’d been sixteen and had given him her virginity. Expensive trinkets. Payments for services rendered? He’d told her at least a hundred times that he loved her. Every time he left town for months, even for years, he came home expecting her to be there waiting for him, with arms wide open. Actually, a better expression would be with legs spread apart. Why was it that every time he came back, she found herself unable to resist him?

Because, idiot, every time he comes back into your life, he convinces you that he loves you, wants you, and someday you’ll have a future together. Even when he’d brought home a fiancée, on two other occasions, he’d come to her for sex. How could she have been so damn stupid?

Well, this time Mr. Jamie Upton could find himself another whore. That’s the way he made her feel—like the whore people thought she was.

Just as she rounded the next corner, the county roads intersected. She halted at the four-way stop and glanced to her left at the arched gates and long driveway that led up to the biggest farm in Cherokee County—the Upton farm. Half a mile up the private drive sat a typical Southern mansion, fashioned after old antebellum homes and built over a hundred years ago for Big Jim Upton’s grandmother, who’d been a Mason from Virginia.

Once, long ago, Jazzy had dreamed of marrying Jamie and living in that big white house, with hot and cold running servants. All her life she’d wanted more, needed more than four walls and a roof. Something inside her yearned to be a lady, and to her that meant being wealthy.

Jazzy swallowed the emotions lodged in her throat, laughed out loud, then gunned the motor and raced through the intersection. Maybe this time Jamie wouldn’t come looking for her. But if he did, maybe this time she’d find the strength to turn him away.

Jacob Butler zipped up his brown leather jacket, positioned his brown Stetson on his head and headed out of his office. He hadn’t had a bite to eat since he’d wolfed down a scrambled egg sandwich at seven this morning while he’d been heading toward Scotsman’s Bluff. It had been a long, tiring day. He was now facing his first murder case since he’d been elected sheriff.

Deputy Bobby Joe Harte called out as Jacob passed by his desk, “That FBI guy just called. He said to tell you he’s in Knoxville and has rented a car. Said he was heading out soon and wanted to talk to you tonight when he gets in.”

“Did you tell him it was going to snow tonight?” Jacob asked.

“No sir. I figure the guy had checked the weather.”

“I’m not going by what the weathermen are predicting. Genny said heavy snowfall tonight.”

“Funny how she’s always right about things like that.” Bobby Joe grinned.

“Look, if he shows up—this Sloan guy—before I get back, tell him I’m over at Jasmine’s eating supper.”

“Just curious, Jacob, but what interest do the Feds have in a local murder case?”

“The Feds don’t have an interest,” Jacob replied. “It’s a personal matter with Sloan. He had a niece who was killed the same way Susie Richards was—slaughtered like a sacrificial lamb.”

“Ah, man, that’s gotta be rough.”

Jacob left the Sheriff’s Department, located on the first floor of the south side of the Cherokee County courthouse, closed the door behind him, and walked out onto the street. A frigid evening wind whizzed around him, blowing tiny new-fallen snowflakes up from the sidewalk. When he looked at the dark sky, he saw snow dancing downward in the glow from the nearby streetlight.

As he walked up Main, he thought about the young girl who’d died at the hands of a monster early this morning. Pete Holt, the coroner and owner of Holt’s Funeral Home, had said she probably hadn’t been dead more than a couple of hours when he’d examined her at the site. He and Pete had done their best to make sure proper procedures were followed, that all the evidence was gathered, and nothing was left undone. He’d called in Roddy Watson for advice. Roddy had been the Chief of Police in Cherokee Pointe for the past fifteen years, and what he lacked in brains he partly made up for with experience. Roddy had told Jacob that with a case like this, they’d have to send all the evidence over to Knoxville to the crime lab there.

Jacob rounded the corner onto Florence Avenue and headed straight for Jasmine’s, the best restaurant in town. As he drew near the front entrance to the renovated two-story building, he sensed he was being followed. When he glanced over his shoulder, he didn’t see anyone, but he couldn’t shake the notion that someone was watching him.

Damn, Butler, get a hold of yourself. Just because there was a gruesome murder in your county this morning doesn’t mean there are boogeymen lurking in the shadows.

He stood across the street and watched the sheriff as he entered Jasmine’s.

Jacob Butler. Got elected by a landslide. Local boy done good. Jacob had left Cherokee Pointe when he’d been eighteen and joined the navy. The big guy—he stood six-five and had to weigh in at no less than two seventy five—had joined a special ops group in the U.S. Army and become a SEAL, been decorated for bravery, and got wounded bad enough on his last assignment to end his career at the ripe old age of thirty-five. Despite his quarter-breed heritage, he’d been welcomed home by the whole town and talked into running for office six months after his return.

He knew all about Jacob, which would make everything so much easier. Knowing one’s enemy was wise. What was the old saying about keep your friends close, but keep your enemies closer. He intended to know every move Jacob made concerning the Susie Richards case.

There was no reason for anyone to ever suspect him. His reputation was above reproach. So when the next murder occurred, the local authorities would be stumped again, unable to figure out who and why. All he had to do was the same as he’d done countless times before—be diligent and patient and careful. With each death, his strength increased. But this time it would be different. This time he had found the perfect fifth victim.

Chapter 2

Genny had spent the day recuperating, and now she was restless. A winter storm was brewing—an unexpected storm. By morning there would be several inches of ice beneath a thick layer of newly fallen snow. There were things she needed to do to prepare for the isolation that lay ahead for her here in the mountains. Although she hadn’t regained all her strength after her dream vision, she had recovered enough to care for herself without any assistance. Jacob had called to check on her twice, and Jazzy had even driven up Cherokee Mountain late in the afternoon to see about her for the second time today. Jacob and Jazzy were the only two people to whom she could turn in moments of crisis, especially if the crisis was a result of her inherited second sight.

Having shared a childhood bond with Jacob, who was like a brother to her, and with Jazzy, with whom she’d been best friends since they were in diapers, she trusted them both implicitly. They understood she was different—Jazzy said she was special—and each stood by her, supported her, and loved her. They might not understand fully what she went through, but they understood better than anyone else ever had … anyone except Granny.

Some people didn’t believe in a sixth sense of any kind, and half of those who did believe in it were afraid of anyone they thought might have it. During her twenty-eight years, she’d been called some terrible names, as her maternal grandmother before her had been. Granny Butler had been ridiculed by those who didn’t understand she had little or no control over her psychic gifts. The ability to see things, to know things that should be impossible for her to see or know had been a mixed blessing, even a curse sometimes. Narrowminded folks in Cherokee County had called her grandmother “the witch woman”, and many had been deathly afraid of her. But just as many had come to Granny, seeking her out for her special powers. And now those same people, as well as their children and grandchildren, often came to her. Sometimes she could help them; other times she either frightened them or sent them away without the help they’d been seeking.

She thanked the good Lord every day of her life that she’d had Granny to teach her, guide her, advise her, and protect her for so many years. Granny’s death six years ago had left a huge hole in Genny’s heart. She’d been two and Jacob eight when her mother had died in the same car wreck that had killed Jacob’s mother, leaving both children motherless. And since her own father had deserted her pregnant mother before Genny’s birth, Jacob’s father, Uncle Marcus, had been the only father she’d ever known.

During her years at Cherokee County High School, she’d tried to hide her abilities, had tried to fit in and be just one of the gang. But everyone had known about her grandmother. People had whispered behind her back, saying that Granny and she were witches. Jacob had gotten into numerous fist-fights defending their honor. How did you explain to people that you weren’t a witch, that you didn’t practice any type of magic, black or white?

The blood of a Cherokee shaman and a Celtic Druid princess had run in Granny Butler’s veins.

“Both my grandmothers had the sight. It skipped over your mother and your uncle Marcus and came right to you, just as it skipped over my mother and her siblings and came directly to me.” Granny had explained her unique inheritance to Genny when at six she had experienced her first vision.

Never a gregarious person and always one who enjoyed being alone, Genny had gravitated more and more to living a solitary life here in the massive old house where she and Jacob had grown up in Granny’s loving care.

Taking her heavy winter coat from the rack on the enclosed back porch, Genny headed for the door. The evening wind whistled around the corner of the cabin and cut into her skin like a thousand frigid little blades. She slipped into the coat hurriedly, grabbled in the pockets until she found her hat and gloves, then put them on. The moment she stepped into the backyard, Drudwyn came racing out of the woods that lay all around the half acre clearing where her great-grandfather had built a home for his family.

“Been visiting your lady friend again?” Genny asked as she reached down to stroke the huge dog’s head and back.

He gazed up at her with the eyes of a wolf, with his father’s eyes. She knew that someday he would leave her to run wild with the wolf pack that lived high in the mountains. She hadn’t seen Drudwyn’s leaving her in a vision, but she had sensed it several times lately when they spoke to each other. One of her several abilities was the rare gift of being able to communicate with animals. It wasn’t that she actually talked to animals and they replied; it was simply that she sensed what they thought and felt, and they in turn seemed able to do the same.

“I have to check the generators,” Genny said. “The electricity will likely go out tonight and I can’t have the greenhouses without power.”

Drudwyn followed at her side as she went through the routine of checking the generator and the greenhouses. Her livelihood depended upon those greenhouses, where she grew specialty flowers and various herbs that were sold locally and by mail-order throughout the country. She hadn’t expanded her nursery of shrubs and trees to her mail-order business, but had hopes of adding it in the near future. During the winter she and Wallace were able to handle everything, but come spring every year she hired a dozen part-time workers.

Wallace drove up from Cherokee Pointe every day except Sunday and Monday. He hadn’t made the drive today since today was Monday. Wallace was a hand-me-down employee from Granny. The old man had worked in the nursery for as long as Genny could remember. People in and around the area had been as unkind and cruel to Wallace because he was “slow-witted” as they had been to Granny because she was “fey”. It didn’t matter that Wallace was Farlan MacKinnon’s younger brother and the MacKinnons were one of the two wealthiest families in the county. Long ago Farlan had ceased trying to control his mentally impaired brother and simply let him do as he pleased. It had always pleased Wallace to work for Melva Mae Butler.

Genny lifted an armful of wood from the huge stack at the back of the house and carried it inside to the box on the back porch. When the electricity went out—and it would; it always did in really bad weather—she would have to rely on the fireplaces and the wood stoves to keep the place warm. The generators were for the greenhouses only.

Suddenly, just as she eased one arm from the sleeve of her coat, she felt an overwhelming sense of foreboding. And then she sensed the presence of another. A man. A tall, fair-haired man. She shook her head, trying to dislodge the strange thoughts. Was she trying to visualize the killer, the man who had murdered poor little Susie Richards?

Standing there on her back porch, Drudwyn nuzzling the side of her thigh in a show of concern, Genny closed her eyes and allowed the vision to come to her, full force, surrounded by bright light and not dark shadows the way the vision had been this morning. Clear, white light. That always meant goodness, not evil. A tall, blond man trudged through the snow and came toward her cabin. He was angry. No, not angry. He was aggravated. He came closer and closer. Her heart raced wildly. Not out of fear, but from excitement. He was coming toward her. Coming for her.

No, no, that’s not right. It can’t be. Why would he be coming for her? He wasn’t the killer. She sensed no evil in him, only an enormous sadness.

As quickly as the phantom appeared, he disappeared. Genny shook from head to toe, then reached out and laid her hands flat against the wall to brace herself. Weakness crept through every muscle in her body.

He’s coming, an inner voice told her. He’s coming to you tonight.

Drudwyn whimpered. Genny took several deep, calming breaths, looked the wolf-dog in the eyes, then removed her coat and hung it on the rack there on the porch.

“I don’t know who he is,” Genny said to Drudwyn as they entered the kitchen. “But whoever he is, he’ll be here tonight. And I believe he’s a good man, one we can trust.”

Genny hoped she was right about the stranger. Only occasionally could she judge a person with her sixth-sense ability. Most people cloaked their true selves from everyone around them, even from psychics. But for some odd reason, she’d gotten past this man’s defenses, even if for only a few moments. Just long enough to sense his sorrow.

“Jamie Upton, you devil you.” Cindy Todd playfully swatted the young prince of the Upton family on the chest. “You know I’m a happily married woman.”

“I know nothing of the sort,” he said as he shoved her up against the wall at the far end of the hallway, near the powder room. “Jerry Lee’s sexual prowess can’t have improved that much since the last time I was in town. I distinctly remember—”

Cindy gently slapped the palm of her hand over Jamie’s mouth. He licked the moist, salty surface. She shivered, jerked her hand away, and glared at him. “You’ve got a new fiancée who should be keeping you satisfied. And … and I’ve got somebody else, too.”

“Somebody besides Jerry Lee, huh? Who is he? Do I know him?”

“No, you don’t know him. He’s new in town.” And he’s the best thing that ever happened to me.

Jamie ran his hand between their bodies and cupped her left breast. “Does he make you feel the way I do? Is he as good in the sack?”

“Dammit, is that what this is all about? You heard something, didn’t you? Somebody hinted to you that I was involved with Dillon and your ego couldn’t stand it because I haven’t been pining away for you the way Jazzy Talbot has.”

Jamie grinned. “You didn’t answer my questions.”

“And I’m not going to. I don’t owe you any explanations. What we had was a wild fling … a couple of wild flings.”

After releasing her breast, Jamie eased back, putting some space between their bodies. “No problem. Just thought I’d give you first dibs before I call Jazzy. I figured you’d be easier. Jazzy always puts up such a fuss before she gives in.”

“If she’s half as smart as I think she is, she won’t give in to you this time,” Cindy told him. “You know she’s dated Jacob Butler several times since he came back to Cherokee Pointe.”

“Jacob Butler? The old witch woman’s grandson? I thought he joined the army or something. When did he come home?”

“Last year. He’s the new sheriff and all the women have a thing for him, even Jazzy.”

“He’s not her type. Jazzy likes her men rich—like me. She wouldn’t seriously waste her time on a quarter-breed with nothing more than a county sheriff’s salary.”

“People change,” Cindy said. “You’ve been gone three years this time. Jazzy’s grown older and wiser. Besides, like I told you, she hasn’t been pining away for you any more than I have.”

Jamie laughed. The sound rippled through Cindy in sensual waves. Everything about Jamie Upton reeked with sex appeal. He was prettier than any man had a right to be, with his wavy brown hair and hypnotic hazel eyes. He wasn’t a big man, but every inch of his five-foot-ten-inch frame was honed to sleek, muscular perfection. He was handsome, rich, and could be charming when it suited him. And he knew how to please a woman in bed—if it suited him.

“I need to get back to the others,” Cindy said. “Jerry Lee’s going to wonder what’s taking me so long in the ladies’ room.”

Jamie stepped aside. Cindy released a relieved sigh, then hurried up the hall, walking only a bit faster than her usual pace. Even though her flight-or-fight instinct urged her to run, she didn’t. She wouldn’t give Jamie the satisfaction of knowing how desperately she wanted to get away before she succumbed to her wicked desire for him. Until she’d had her first fling with him, she hadn’t understood why Jazzy Talbot repeatedly made a fool of herself over the man. But she understood now. There was something irresistible about the black-hearted bastard. But she doubted Jamie had ever loved anyone in his entire life—anyone other than himself, that is.

When Cindy reached the huge front parlor, she paused, licked her lips, smoothed her hands down either side of her clinging silk dress, and squared her shoulders. Back into the fray, she thought. Forcing a false smile, she entered the room where the Uptons were entertaining a variety of local society. Although the dinner party had been planned weeks ago, before Jamie’s return, the event had turned into a welcome home for the Uptons’ only grandchild. Miss Reba had quickly added a dozen more to the guest list, including Jerry Lee and Cindy, and changed the sit-down dinner into a buffet.

When she entered the room, Jerry Lee didn’t even notice her; he was deep in conversation with Big Jim Upton, the patriarch of the Upton family. Jerry Lee’s daddy had been friends with Big Jim, who had used his influence and wealth to help get Jerry Lee elected mayor of Cherokee Pointe for two terms, the second of which had just begun.

Big Jim stood six-four and probably tipped the scales at close to three hundred pounds. He possessed a shock of thick white hair and sported a dapper white mustache. The Upton family owned Upton Farms, which still provided dairy products to most of northeastern Tennessee. They were semi-old money. Four generations of wealth. And each Upton son had married class, making each successive generation a bit more refined than the previous one. But something had gone wrong with the only heir. Jamie Upton might be well-bred, but he was a worthless, heartless son of a bitch.

“Cindy, there you are,” Reba Upton called. “Come here, dear, and meet the Stowes.”

Cindy forced a smile and went directly toward Miss Reba, Big Jim’s petite blond wife. Her unlined face and sleek, slender body belied the fact that she was seventy years old. A visit to a skilled surgeon every six years or so kept the old biddy’s face as smooth as a baby’s butt, and daily workouts with her own personal trainer kept her body in shape.

Reba laced her arm through Cindy’s, her mauve lips spread wide in a hostess smile. “Cindy, this is Reverend and Mrs. Stowe. They’re new in Cherokee Pointe. The reverend has been assigned to the Congregational Church.” Reba patted Cindy’s hand. “And this dear girl is our mayor’s wife, Cindy Todd.”

The minister, a tall, slender man with thinning brown hair and washed-out blue eyes nodded. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Todd. It would be an honor to have you and the mayor attend services with us this Sunday.”

Mrs. Stowe, though dressed conservatively in a simple beige linen dress, eluded an aura of sexiness—maybe it was the long, straight, platinum blond hair or the huge brown eyes framed by thick black lashes. She stood at her husband’s side, quiet and obedient, a bored expression on her face.

Cindy turned her attention to Mr. Stowe. “We certainly appreciate the invitation, but Jerry Lee and I are staunch Baptists.”

Before the minister could reply, Reba tugged on Cindy’s arm and said to the Stowes, “Y’all will excuse us, won’t you? I see Dr. and Mrs. MacNair over there all alone. I’ll just take Cindy over to meet them. Do mix and mingle. Enjoy yourselves. So glad y’all could come tonight.”

Reba rushed Cindy away, and when they were out of earshot of the Stowes, she said, “They’re the oddest people, don’t you think? She’s years younger than he is. I’d say no more than thirty, if that. And she acts as if she’s deaf and dumb. The woman hasn’t said a word since they arrived.”

“Maybe she’s shy,” Cindy said.

“Shy? I doubt it.”

Reba led Cindy toward a young couple standing off by themselves in the crowded room. The man had a stocky build, ruddy complexion, and a receding hairline, although he was probably in his early thirties. His wife was as tall as he, around five-nine, and was as willowy thin as he was stout. Although not really pretty, the strawberry blonde had a pleasant face. Cindy liked her instantly.

“Hello, there,” Reba called to the secluded twosome. Reaching them, she said to Cindy, “You must meet these lovely people. This is Dr. Galvin MacNair and Mrs. MacNair.” Reba stared at the wife. “What is your given name, dear?”

“Nina,” the young woman replied, a hint of a smile on her lips.

“Galvin has taken over Dr. Webster’s practice at the clinic,” Reba said. “He’s fresh from his residency in—where was it now? What city?”

“Bowling Green,” Galvin replied.

Cindy chatted with the MacNairs for several minutes after Reba moved on to charm more of her guests. She liked the young couple, the wife more than the husband, who seemed oddly quiet. She even made a date with Nina MacNair for lunch at the Country Club on Thursday.

Checking her watch, Cindy noted that it was nearly nine. She’d promised Dillon she would find a way to meet him tonight, even if only for an hour. When she’d made that promise she thought she would be able to fake a headache and stay home from the party, but Jerry Lee had seen through her ploy immediately.

“Get yourself dressed and be ready to go to the Uptons in twenty minutes,” Jerry Lee had told her, his round face red with rage. “If you aren’t ready by then, I’ll dress you myself—after I prove to you once again who’s the boss around here.”

Jerry Lee could be violent if pushed, and on several occasions he’d gotten rough with her. He’d never broken any of her bones, but he’d left her bruised and sore at least half a dozen times in the past four years. She thought about leaving him, dreamed of some other man whisking her away, but no one had come along to rescue her. Not until now. Not until Dillon. They’d been sleeping together for a month, ever since she’d joined the little theater group. He had moved to Cherokee Pointe late last summer after being hired by the city to oversee the local theater that produced plays to draw in the tourist trade.

What would Jerry Lee do if she went to him now and told him she had a splitting headache and needed to go home? He wouldn’t want to leave the party. Whenever either the Uptons or MacKinnons threw a party, Jerry Lee Todd was one of the first to arrive and the last to leave. Her dear husband knew how to suck up better than anyone she’d ever known. He was a brownnoser par excellence.

As she strolled out into the foyer, seeking relief from the incessant chatter that had reached a deafening roar in the parlor, Cindy noticed Dr. MacNair and his wife accepting their coats from the maid. They were leaving early.

Before she realized what she was doing, Cindy rushed toward Nina MacNair. “Would y’all mind giving me a lift into town? I have a dreadful headache and I don’t want to bother Jerry Lee. He loves these parties so.”

“Yes, certainly,” Nina reached out and patted Cindy’s arm. “We’d be happy to drop you off at your house. And if you’d like, Galvin can give you something for your headache.”

“Oh no, really, that won’t be necessary. I have something at home I can take.” She turned to the maid. “Would you get my coat, please? And once I’m gone, tell Mr. Todd that I wasn’t feeling well and caught a ride home with Dr. and Mrs. MacNair.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the maid said and hurried to get Cindy’s coat.

Half an hour later, Cindy stood outside Dillon’s apartment. She’d walked there in the freezing rain, the three blocks from her house on Chestnut Street to the two-story apartment building on Baker’s Lane. Drenched to the skin and out of breath from running up the stairs to the second floor, she punched the doorbell repeatedly. She had an hour at most. An hour to find comfort and caring before she’d have to rush home and feign sleep when Jerry Lee returned from the Uptons. With luck the party would go on until at least eleven, even if this was a Monday night.

Dillon threw open the door and surveyed her from head to toe. “My God, sugar, come on in and get out of those wet clothes.”

Dillon wasn’t a handsome man, but there was an inexplicable sexiness about him. He stood about six-one. Curly dark hair tumbled about his broad shoulders. And when he did nothing more than grin at her, her pussy moistened.

Smiling, she moved past him and into his cluttered living room. Many creative people were known for being messy and disorganized. Dillon was certainly both. Newspapers and magazines lay strewn about, an empty cup rested on the edge of the coffee table, and two pairs of sneakers and dirty socks lay discarded on either end of the sofa.

“You’re earlier than I thought,” Dillon said as he helped her off with her damp coat. “Did Jerry Lee go to sleep early tonight?”

Cindy ran her hands up and down her arms in an effort to warm herself. “We had to go to that party at the Uptons’.”

“So that’s why you’re wearing such a fancy dress—why you look exceptionally pretty tonight.”

“Oh, God, don’t lie to me,” she told him. “I look like a drowned rat and we both know it.”

“You’re beautiful, even soaking wet and with your makeup smudged.” He ran the back of his hand across her cheek. “Why don’t you go in the bedroom and strip off all those wet things.”

She grabbed his hand. “Come with me. I don’t have long. I don’t know for sure what time he’ll get home tonight.”

Dillon turned her hand over and kissed the center of her palm. “You go ahead and I’ll be right there. I’ll pour us a couple of drinks. Some Jack Daniels should warm you up pretty quick.”

She didn’t want the whiskey; she wanted him. But she did as he’d requested and scurried off to his bedroom, which was as cluttered as the living room. Clothes were strewn hither and your. A laundry basket filled with what she assumed were washed but not folded towels and underwear perched atop the chest of drawers in the corner. An unmade bed lay before her, the comforter sloping halfway onto the carpeted floor. She doubted the sheets had been changed in weeks, but she didn’t care. She’d rather share a dirty bed with Dillon than sleep on satin sheets with Jerry Lee.

Hurriedly she stripped off her dress, then kicked off her shoes and removed her pantyhose and bra. She was in the process of sliding her panties down her legs when Dillon came into the bedroom. She let the black bikini panties drop around her ankles as she faced him.

He stared at her appreciatively for several minutes. Heat rose up from within her as her body clenched and unclenched. She knew she looked all right naked. She wasn’t that old. Thirty-three. Never having gone through childbirth, her breasts were small but perky, her stomach flat, and by exercising like a maniac she’d been able to keep the cellulite at bay and her muscles toned.

Dillon came across the room toward her, his movements lazy and deliberate, like a dancer in slow motion. He held out a half-filled tumbler. Her gaze met his, the two joining together for endless moments. After lifting one foot and then the other, she kicked her panties aside and took the glass of whiskey from him.

“Not knowing when your hubby will get home, you’re taking a terrible risk coming here this way.” Sipping on the liquor, he eyed her over the rim of his glass.

Why had he reminded her? Didn’t he want her here? Had he decided having an affair with the mayor’s wife was too dangerous?

“Being with you is worth the risk.” With shaky hands she lifted the tumbler and tasted the whiskey. A hot blaze zipped down her throat and hit her belly like a ball of fire. She coughed a couple of times, but never took her eyes off him. “I thought you felt the same way.”

Dillon gulped a couple of swigs from the glass, blew out a warm breath, and set the tumbler aside. Before she knew what was happening, he reached out and grabbed her. She gasped when her naked breasts crushed against his bulky knit sweater.

“I’ll show you how I feel.” He took the glass from her and set it alongside his atop a discarded pair of jeans on the chest at the foot of the bed.

Her heartbeat accelerated the moment his hands cupped her hips and pressed her against his erection. With frenzied motions, she ran her hands up under his sweater to touch his sleek chest. Together they quickly divested him of his clothing, all the while kissing and touching. Moments later, he tossed her onto the bed and took her without any real foreplay. He rammed himself up inside and began pumping her like mad. Luckily she was already dripping wet and pulsating with need. They went at it like a couple of animals and both came within a few minutes.

Later—five minutes or ten, Cindy wasn’t sure—she eased out of his arms and off the bed. She went to the bathroom, cleaned herself, and came back into the bedroom to gather her clothes. Dillon scooted up in the bed, leaned his back against the headboard and watched her perform a reverse striptease.

Her clothes were damp and clammy, but it couldn’t be helped. She didn’t dare stay long enough for them to dry.

“Dillon?”

“Hmm?”

“If I leave Jerry Lee, will you … would you be here for me?”

Dillon stared at her, his eyes wide with surprise. “You’ve told me yourself that he’d never let you leave him. That he’d kill you first.”

“Not if I had someone to protect me.”

“Is that what you want? You want me to protect you from your husband?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I want. I want someone who cares enough about me to take me away from Jerry Lee and keep me safe.”

“Sugar, I’m not sure I’m that man. I care about you, but—”

“But not that much.”

Before she embarrassed herself even more, Cindy ran from the room. She picked up her coat off the sofa in the living room, slipped into it, and rushed out into the hallway. Taking several deep breaths, she forced herself not to scream; but she could do nothing to prevent the tears from cascading down her cheeks.

When she walked out onto the sidewalk, she realized it was snowing to beat the band. Heavy snow, so thick she couldn’t see ten feet away. God, she’d freeze to death before she made it home on foot.

Suddenly she saw the headlights of a vehicle creeping down the street. Maybe she could hitch a ride. In a town this small there was a good chance she’d know whoever was driving.

The vehicle slowed and then stopped. The passenger door swung open.

“Cindy, is that you?” he asked.

She sighed with relief. “Yes, it’s me.”

“What are you doing out on foot on a night like this?”

“Visiting a friend,” she replied. “Hey, would you mind giving me a ride home?”

“I don’t mind at all,” he said. “As a matter of fact, it would be my pleasure.”

Chapter 3

Jacob sat in a booth at the back of the empty room in the restaurant part of Jasmine Talbot’s two businesses on Loden Street. Jasmine’s was a nice family restaurant that catered to locals and tourists alike. Jazzy’s Joint, in the adjoining building at the end of the street, was an old-fashioned bar/juke joint. Appealing to vastly different clienteles, the establishments had separate entrances and thick, double brick walls separating the two. When he was off duty, sometimes he’d mosey on over to the wilder side, but tonight, he wasn’t looking for excitement. Just a decent meal and some time to collect his thoughts.

He was facing his first murder case since being elected sheriff of Cherokee County, and it wasn’t just an ordinary killing—a gunshot wound or a stabbing. The victim hadn’t been involved in drugs, a domestic quarrel, or a revenge scheme. Susie Richards had been barely seventeen years old. A good kid from a good family, according to everything he’d learned about her. A straight-A student, president of the junior class at Cherokee Pointe High, and liked by everyone who knew her.

Just as Jacob finished off the last bite of apple pie and shoved the plate aside, Jazzy appeared beside him, a full pot of fresh coffee in her hand. He glanced up and smiled. She was a sight for sore eyes. A good-looking woman could always improve any bad situation. And Jasmine Talbot was about as good-looking as they came. Tall, long-legged, and big-boobed, she was definitely built like the proverbial brick shithouse. She had a short, unruly mane of fiery red hair, the color so striking he knew it came out of a bottle, and a pair of cat-green eyes that seemed to possess the ability to look right through a man.

They had dated a few times, shared a few kisses and gropes, but hadn’t crossed over the line from friends to sex partners. And he was glad. They genuinely liked each other, but the sexual chemistry just wasn’t right between them. If they had screwed around, it would have been harder to remain buddies.

“More coffee?” Jazzy asked, but before he could reply she filled his cup, placed the pot on the table and sat down on the other side of the booth directly across from him.

“Thanks.” He lifted the cup to his lips.

“It’s decaf,” she told him.

He frowned. “I don’t drink decaf.”

“You do tonight. I figure you’re pretty wired already, what with all you’ve had to handle today. And my guess is that you’ve been swigging down high-octane coffee all day. The stuff has probably replaced the blood in your veins.”

“You know me too well.”

“You should go home and get a good night’s sleep. You look like hell.”

He grinned. “That’s one of the many things I like about you—your brutal honesty.”

“Good thing you’ve got a place in town,” Jazzy said. “That snowstorm Genny predicted has already started. There are probably a couple inches of ice under the three or four inches of snow that’s already fallen, and it’s only ten-thirty.”

Jacob nodded. “I doubt I’ll sleep much tonight.”

“Yeah, I don’t suppose I would either after getting a good look at Susie Richards.” Jazzy turned over a clean empty cup on the table and poured herself some coffee. “Rumors are flying like crazy around town. I know you can’t tell me anything much, but … you can’t put off making another statement to the press much longer. Brian MacKinnon’s going to make a big deal out of this murder. It’ll be headline news in the Cherokee Pointe Herald for weeks, especially if you don’t nab the killer soon. He’d like nothing better than to find reasons to put you in a bad light.”

“Brian’s a prick.” Jacob grunted. “He’s another one who thinks money can buy him anything he wants.” He looked Jazzy square in the eyes.

“Yeah, I know Jamie’s back in town. Sally and Ludie told me. And no, I have no intention of getting involved with him again.”

“Your life. Your decision,” Jacob said. “Jamie’s not my problem, but Brian, on the other hand, is. He doesn’t like me because I don’t approve of him sniffing around Genny. He’s too old for her and she’s too good for him, and I told him so. More than once.”

Jazzy laughed, then lifted the cup to her lips and sipped on the hot coffee. “Brutal honesty. A trait we have in common.”

“Something about Brian bothers me. Always has, even when I was a kid. He’s too slick, too smooth. What you see is not what you get with him. I think Genny senses it, too, and that’s why she hasn’t encouraged him.”

“A guy like Brian doesn’t need much encouragement. He’s used to getting what he wants, and believe me, he wants our Genny real bad.”

“Yeah, well, he’s got some competition now with that Pierpont guy after her, too. Can’t say he’d be my choice for Genny, but he’s an improvement over MacKinnon.”

“Royce Pierpoint seems nice enough.” Jazzy topped off both their cups. “He is more Genny’s type. Gentle. Sensitive. Soft-spoken.”

“Maybe he is. But we don’t know much about him. How long has it been since he came to town and opened that antique store of his? Three or four months?”

“Back before Thanksgiving sometime.”

Jacob took another swig of coffee, then stood, pulled his wallet from his pants pocket, and took out several bills. He handed the money to Jazzy. “I think I’ll stop back by the office before I head home.”

Jazzy stood up beside him and wrapped her arm around his waist. “You’ll solve this crime. I have every confidence in you.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek.

He gave her a quick hug, then lumbered out of the restaurant and into the frigid night. Damn, he could barely see the streetlight in front of Jazzy’s Joint. It was snowing so hard he couldn’t see much of anything. He flipped up the collar on his jacket and stomped through the snow, making his way back to his office a few blocks away.

The streets were deserted, making Cherokee Pointe look like a frozen ghost town.

Dallas Sloan cursed loudly! How the hell had this happened? Nobody had said anything about a winter storm. All the weather forecasters had mentioned was some freezing rain and sleet. A trip that should have taken him about an hour had taken him three times that long. Of course making a wrong turn fifty miles back hadn’t helped any. He wasn’t even sure he was on the right road now. Cherokee Pointe was located in a valley in the foothills of the Smoky Mountains, so being on a road on the side of a mountain seemed logical to him. What didn’t seem logical was the fact that he’d wound up in a ditch. He wasn’t the type to take wrong turns or lose control of a vehicle. Everything that could go wrong had gone wrong ever since he’d stepped off the plane in Knoxville.

He was slightly distracted, his mind mired in the details of Brooke’s murder and the similarities between her brutal killing and the slaying of a seventeen-year-old named Susie Richards. Brooke had been fifteen, the oldest of his sister’s three children. She’d been the first grandchild in the family and everyone had doted on her, even her Uncle Dallas.

He had found out quickly that when a case was personal, you couldn’t handle it with the same cool detachment you managed to use to your advantage when the victim was a stranger. It hadn’t been easy doing his job the past eight months, but he’d tried. And he had succeeded, at least part of the time. He’d been following a lot of leads that led nowhere, but he had a gut feeling about this one. Okay, so he’d already used almost all his vacation and sick-leave days and called in favors from everyone he knew at the Bureau. So what? No one questioned his right to act the way he did. After all, anyone else in his shoes might have gone ballistic and become totally obsessed with finding their niece’s killer. Sometimes it was difficult to maintain control, to make sure he didn’t move beyond determination into obsession. But Dallas prided himself on being in firm control. He’d never been a man to allow emotions to overrule common sense. If he was going to find Brooke’s killer, he couldn’t allow sentiment to get in the way.

Dallas punched in the sheriff’s number on his cell phone. No reception. Was he out of range of a tower or was the crappy weather messing up signals? So what should he do now? He couldn’t call for help, and he might freeze to death if he stayed in the car all night. But what was the alternative? If he got out and went in search of help, he’d probably get lost in this damn storm. Okay, maybe he could figure out a way to get the rented Saturn out of the ditch and back on the road.

The moment he opened the car door, the fierce wind bombarded him with a stinging mixture of sleet and snow. Blinking several times to clear the moisture from his eyes, he got out, slammed the door behind him and scanned the vehicle from hood to trunk. The right half of the car rested in the deep roadside ditch, with the left half perched on the shoulder of the winding mountain road. As he stomped toward the rear of the car, his feet slid out from underneath him. Reaching out, he grabbed the left rear bumper, but his gloved hands slipped and he completely lost his balance. His backside hit the ground, sending a cloud of newly fallen snow flying into the air all around him.

Dallas cursed a blue streak. He should have known a dangerous blanket of ice lay beneath the innocent-looking snow. After getting to his feet, he glanced at the road, first in the direction from which he’d come to see if he’d missed any sign of a house, and then he looked ahead, searching through the blinding snow. He wiped his face, blinked, and zeroed his focus on one specific spot. Was that a light he saw shining through the darkness? It couldn’t be the moon or a star, not in this kind of weather. It had to be a manmade light. Another car? Or was it a house out here in the middle of nowhere?

Cautiously Dallas climbed out of the ditch, his leather shoes slipping and sliding. He grabbed hold of a low branch on a small tree growing by the roadside, then hoisted himself up and onto the road. He moved carefully down the road, continuously wiping the snow from his eyes so that he could see. After going no more than thirty feet, he caught a glimpse of the house sitting high above the road. The porch light burned brightly, like a beacon in the night. Within minutes he reached the driveway leading up to the big white clapboard farmhouse. Damn, but it was a steep climb. How the hell could he climb an iced-over drive that appeared to go straight up? Suddenly he noticed the bright red mailbox a good eight or nine feet from the drive.

Steps! Stone steps led from the mailbox upward, hopefully all the way to the front yard. If he had to, he would crawl up those steps. When his feet touched the first stone-covered niche, he saw the long iron railing that ran the length of the primitive stairway. Hallelujah!

Good thing he was in prime physical condition, otherwise he would have been huffing like a steam engine by the time he reached the expansive front yard. He couldn’t remember when anything had looked as welcoming as that porch light. But why would anyone have a light on this late at night, unless they were expecting someone or unless they were gone? He sure hoped the people who lived here were at home; if not, he’d have no choice but to do something illegal—break in.

The moment he set foot on the porch, he shook the snow from his head and brushed it off his overcoat. After a couple of seconds searching for a doorbell, he realized there was none, so he lifted his hand and knocked. Instantly the sound of deep, rumbling growls alerted him that there was a dog in residence. From the sound of its powerful bark, a very large dog.

The door swung wide open. His gaze bounced back and forth from the massive dog, who vaguely resembled a wolf, to the small, black-eyed woman standing beside the animal, one hand tenderly stroking the fierce beast’s head. The howling wind blocked out soft sounds, so when the woman spoke to him he couldn’t quite make out what she was saying.

He leaned forward. The dog bristled and bared his sharp teeth. The woman soothed the animal with words Dallas couldn’t understand.

She motioned to Dallas to come inside, which he did immediately, entering to the woman’s left, since her pet stood guard on her right.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Dallas said as he waited just inside the doorway. “My car skidded off the road not far from here and my cell phone isn’t working, so—”

She slammed the door closed, bent down and whispered something to the dog, then turned and looked directly at Dallas. “Please, come into the living room by the fire and warm yourself.”

Dallas stared at her, into the darkest, most hypnotic eyes he’d ever seen. Eyes the color of rich, black earth. Why was this woman not afraid of him? Did she think her dog could protect her from any and all harm? Surely she knew there was a killer on the loose in Cherokee County. Perhaps he should identify himself and put her totally at ease, just in case she had any qualms about having a perfect stranger in her house.

“I’m Special Agent Dallas Sloan, with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.” He unbuttoned his overcoat and reached inside his sports jacket for his ID and badge, then held it up so she could inspect it.

She glanced at his ID, then smiled. “You’re the agent who called Jacob, aren’t you?”

“Jacob?”

“Sheriff Jacob Butler.”

“Yeah, I’m the one who called him. You know the sheriff?” He supposed in a rural area like Cherokee County everybody knew everybody else.

“Jacob is my cousin, but we’re more like brother and sister.”

She smiled. A warm, soft expression that radiated gentleness. Dallas studied her, from her long, free-flowing black hair, down her small, delicate body covered in denim jeans and a red plaid flannel shirt, to her booted feet. She was an exotically beautiful creature, with skin the color of rich café au lait. Full, naturally pink lips, slender nose, and almond-shaped eyes completed the package.

When he realized he was gawking at her, he looked away abruptly. “Is your phone working?” he asked gruffly, aggravated at himself for allowing her extraordinary beauty to affect him. “I can call a wrecker service or maybe a taxi—”

She giggled, the sound like tingling wind chimes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m not laughing at you. My phone is still working, for the moment. But no one will venture up the mountain on a night like this. Besides, I’m afraid Cherokee Pointe has no taxi service. Old John Berryman ran the only taxi in town, and when he died, no one took over his business. Just not enough calls for a taxi in these parts.”

Huffing, Dallas ran his hand over his face and found his beard stubble rough against his palm. “Are you saying I’m stuck here?”

“Yes. At least until the storm passes and the roads clear. The county will send out a crew in the morning and begin clearing the roads.”

“Would I be imposing if I—”

“You’re welcome to stay here,” she said without a moment’s hesitation. “I have plenty of room. It’s just Drudwyn and me in this big old house.”

“Ma’am, you shouldn’t tell a stranger who has invaded your home that you live alone.” She simply looked at him and smiled. “I’ll be out of here first thing tomorrow. Just as soon as I can get a—”

“Not tomorrow morning,” she said. “The plows won’t make it out this far before afternoon. You should be able to get into Cherokee Pointe by sometime late tomorrow. That is, if the storm lets up by morning, and I believe it will.”

“But I can’t stay here that long. I have to talk to Sheriff Butler as soon as possible.”

She reached out and placed her hand on his. Every nerve in his body reacted to the touch of her small hand atop his. He felt as if he were on fire.

“Call Jacob and let him know you’re here, with me. You can discuss whatever you need to discuss with him over the phone.”

“How’s he going to feel about a man neither of you know spending the night here with you?”

“He’ll no doubt warn you to behave yourself, but he won’t really worry about me. He knows I can take care of myself. And he knows Drudwyn would kill anyone who tried to harm me.”

As if understanding his mistress’s words, the huge dog growled menacingly.

Dallas held up his hands in a “stop” gesture. “All right, boy, I get the picture. I’m not here to harm her.”

“I’ve told him,” she said. “He knows you mean me no harm, but I’m afraid he’s a bit jealous. You see he thinks of himself as the alpha male around here and he senses that you, too, are an alpha male, one who is trespassing on his territory.”

“I won’t have to worry about him ripping out my throat while I sleep tonight, will I?” Dallas asked, only halfway joking.

“Please, may I take your coat and gloves?” she asked. “I’ll hang your coat up and it should be dry in a few hours.”

He shed his overcoat, ripped off his gloves, and handed both to her. “Thanks.”

She took the garments, then waved an outstretched hand toward the room to the left. “Go on into the living room and take a seat by the fireplace. I’ll put these away and bring you some tea, and if you’d like, a sandwich, too.”

“I don’t want to put you to any trouble.” Talk about Southern hospitality. This woman would win first prize in the perfect hostess contest.

“No trouble,” she replied and disappeared down the hallway. Thankfully, Drudwyn followed her. Then she called out, “There’s a telephone in the living room. Feel free to call Jacob. Try the Sheriff’s Department and if he’s not there, I can give you his home number.”

“Okay, thanks. I’ll give him a call.”

Dallas glanced around the room and suddenly felt as if he’d stepped back in time. He doubted there was anything in here that wasn’t at least fifty years old, most of it probably a lot older. The walls were paneled halfway up in an aged wood that looked like pine to him, mellowed to a rich patina that glistened in the soft lighting from the two table lamps flanking the sofa and from the firelight. The furniture looked like museum pieces, except it had a well-used appearance that came only from generations of continuous service. The floor beneath his feet consisted of wide planks, spotlessly clean and waxed to a glossy finish.

The modern portable telephone on the open antique secretary caught Dallas’s eye. Thank goodness something in this place was up-to-date. He picked up the phone, then sat down in one of the two wing chairs near the fireplace. The warmth seeped through his damp clothing. He sighed. He had driven here in a damn storm and might have been forced to stay in his stranded vehicle had it not been for fate. Fate had sent him into a warm, inviting home.

As he made himself comfortable, he pulled out a small black notepad and flipped it open. He repeated aloud the number he’d scrawled down before leaving D.C. earlier this evening. He’d caught the first available flight, which had taken him into Knoxville, instead of waiting for a morning flight that would have taken him to Cherokee Pointe’s small airport. In retrospect, he realized he’d have been better off to have taken the morning flight.

He punched the ON button and dialed the number for the Sheriff’s Department. On the second ring, a male voice answered.

“This is Special Agent Dallas Sloan,” he told the man who had identified himself as Deputy Bobby Joe Harte. “Is Sheriff Butler around?”

“Just so happens he is. Hold on and I’ll get him for you. I know he was expecting you in tonight.”

“I got held up,” Dallas said. “I won’t be able to make it into town until tomorrow.”

Dallas waited for a reply. None came. Then he realized the phone was dead. Damn. Now he wouldn’t get a chance to speak to Butler tonight.

“Did you get Jacob?” the woman asked as she entered the living room carrying a silver tray.

Dallas came to his feet instantly and went to her. He took the tray from her and carried it across the room, then placed it on the table to the left of the fireplace where she indicated with a wave of her open palm.

“I got hold of a Deputy Harte, but the line went dead before I could speak to the sheriff.”

She motioned for him to take a seat, which he did.

“Well, that means the ice has gotten heavy on some of the phone lines and snapped them.” She lifted a silver teapot and poured a reddish-brown liquid into a china cup. “I fixed you a chicken salad sandwich. Is that all right?”

“Are you always so accommodating to strangers stranded on your mountain?” He accepted the cup of tea she held out to him. “If so, then I’m surprised your cousin Jacob hasn’t cautioned you to be more careful. Even with Drudwyn around”—he scanned the room—“by the way, where is your companion?”

She sat across from Dallas and removed a linen napkin from atop a china plate with roses on it, revealing a large, thick sandwich. Dallas’s mouth watered. He hadn’t had a bite to eat since lunch, which had been over ten hours ago.

“He stayed in the kitchen,” she replied.

“By choice?”

“By mutual agreement.”

She stared at him unabashedly. An odd sensation hit him square in the gut. “Please, Dallas, go ahead and eat.”

His named rolled off her tongue as if coated in honey. A sweet Southern drawl. A tight fist clutched at his insides. Something was definitely wrong here. He didn’t go around reacting this way to women. Not ever.

“I don’t know your name.” He forced a smile. Hell, he didn’t feel like smiling; he felt like running scared out of this house and away from this strange yet oddly appealing woman.

“Genevieve Madoc. But people call me Genny.”

Genevieve. The name suited her. And yet so did Genny. Old-fashioned, even a bit romantic.

“I appreciate your hospitality, Genny.”

“You’re quite welcome.”

Once again she reached out and touched his hand, but this time she closed her eyes. What the hell was she doing? Suddenly, she jerked her hand away.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Your pain is very great,” she told him. “Almost more than you can bear. It wasn’t your fault that she died. And it isn’t your fault that you haven’t found her killer. But you will. And soon.”

Dallas dropped the cup; it crashed into pieces as it hit the hard wooden floor. Hot tea spread out across the shiny surface. He sat there staring at Genny for several minutes. Moments out of time.

“I’m sorry about the cup,” he said as he reached down to pick up the pieces. “If you’ll get me a mop, I’ll—”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it. Here—” she took her cup, filled it with tea, and handed it to him. “Drink, eat, relax. Let me take care of you.”

Before he could reply, she rose to her feet and hurried from the room. Dallas stared after her, stunned by her words. Let me take care of you.

“How did you know about my niece?” he asked.

“I’m sure Jacob must have mentioned it,” she replied as she paused in the doorway.

He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but there was something peculiar about Genny, something that didn’t quite add up. Get real, Sloan, he chastised himself. You’re tired, you’re stressed, and you haven’t gotten laid in six months. You’re overreacting to simple human kindness.

Maybe so, but he couldn’t shake the unnerving feeling that Genevieve Madoc was going to change his life forever.

He laid her limp body in the middle of the bed, gazed down at her, and smiled.

The second victim had fallen into his arms as easily as the first had. Providence always provided. He never had to choose the first four—they always came to him. He simply waited for them. Sometimes it took only days. Other times it might take weeks. But they were essential. Their blood sustained him, strengthened him, prepared him for the fifth victim.

She would remain unconscious for several hours. Long enough for him to remove her clothes and pleasure himself. With the weather so nasty, he didn’t believe an outdoor setting was wise. Where could he find an appropriate place to make the sacrifice? Only two things were necessary for him to accomplish the deed: an altar and complete privacy.

He couldn’t keep her here for very long. Not without risking being found out. No, he’d have to choose a place quickly, somewhere close by, since traveling very far would be out of the question in this winter storm. Before daybreak he would place her on the altar, speak the solemn, sacred words he’d been taught as a boy, then, when dawn broke over the eastern horizon, he would make the sacrifice.

One sacrifice had already been made and there were three more to make before he could take her, the one who would give him more power than all the other victims combined. Just the thought of taking her, consuming her, aroused him unbearably.

While a drugged Cindy Todd lay on the cot in the basement, he unzipped his slacks, eased his penis free and jerked off. Within moments his cum spewed out over her naked belly.

Chapter 4

Big Jim Upton poured himself a brandy and tried his best to shut out the sound of his wife’s droning voice. It wasn’t that he didn’t love Reba. He did. She was a good woman, but not an endearing one. He’d married her on the rebound over fifty-five years ago, when the love of his life married another man. He didn’t regret marrying her—at least not until recently. Reba had given him a son and a daughter; and together they had survived the loss of both children. For years they had clung to the hope that their only grandchild would eventually mature into a decent, responsible human being. Jamie was thirty now and it was past time for him to settle down, but Jim didn’t see any evidence of that happening anytime soon.

“Where on earth could he be?” Reba whined as she paced the floor in the living room. “How could he leave his own welcome-home party without so much as a by-your-leave?”

Jim glanced across the room at Jamie’s most recent fiancée. Laura Willis sat on the sofa, her eyes downcast and her hands folded in her lap. The girl was a great improvement over some of the other women the boy had brought home—two other fiancées during the past eight years. Jamie wouldn’t marry this girl, just as he hadn’t married the ones that had come before her, but she probably didn’t realize it—not yet. But she would. Possibly tonight. Jim had a pretty good idea where Jamie had gone. Once he was back in Cherokee County, not even a winter storm could keep him away from Jazzy Talbot.

“Do you suppose he had car trouble and that’s why he hasn’t returned?” Laura lifted her head but didn’t make eye contact with either Jim or Reba.

“He could have called,” Reba said. “The phone is not out of order. I checked myself only a few minutes ago.”

“What’s the point of our staying up any longer?” Jim asked. “Jamie will come home when he comes home. That boy doesn’t have a responsible, reliable bone in his body.”

“Jim, really!” Reba’s voice screeched. “What will dear Laura think, hearing you speak about your own grandson in such a manner?”

Dear Laura? Jim chuckled inwardly as his lips twitched in an effort to refrain from smiling. The minute Reba had found out that Laura’s parents were part of the horse-breeding set, the Willis family from Lexington, Kentucky, she’d taken the girl to her bosom. More than anything, Reba wanted Jamie to make a good marriage; and to Reba that meant marrying the right sort of girl from a proper family. She’d certainly seen to it that their son, Jim Jr., and their daughter, Melanie, had married the right sort.

He supposed Jim Jr. and his wife had been moderately happy, especially after Jamie’s birth, but Melanie had been miserable with her state senator husband, the son of one of Reba’s college sorority sisters. Poor little Melanie. The sweetest child. The most devoted of daughters. On her fourth wedding anniversary she’d left her husband; and it had been a dozen years later before anyone had heard from her. Actually, they hadn’t heard from her, only about her. The police in Memphis had phoned to inform them that their daughter was dead. A drug overdose.

“I’m going to call Sheriff Butler.” Reba headed out of the living room.

“Wait up,” Jim called. “You and I both know where that boy is. There’s no use bothering Jacob Butler at this time of night. It’s nearly one o’clock. Besides, by now the roads are probably a holy mess, so Jamie wouldn’t even try to come home tonight.”

“You know where he is?” Laura’s sparkling blue eyes dared a head-on meeting with Jim’s dark gaze.

“No, no, he doesn’t know. He’s just guessing.” Reba turned back into the living room and scurried over to the sofa. She sat beside Laura, then gave Jim a condemning look.

“Hell, Reba, the girl might as well know the truth. She’ll find out soon enough.”

“Shut up, Jim,” Reba snapped shrilly.

“What—what is it that you don’t want me to know? Is there another woman?”

“Yes!” Jim said.

“No!” Reba said simultaneously.

Jim felt sorry for Laura. The girl was so young, probably not a day over twenty-two, and seemed to be madly in love with Jamie. Of course, they all were, every poor fool he’d ever asked to marry him. Most women easily fell under Jamie’s spell, even Jazzy Talbot. Now there was a woman for you! Too bad she didn’t possess a suitable pedigree. If she did, Reba might approve of her. If any woman could ever get Jamie to the altar, it would be Jazzy.

“Jamie has some good friends here in Cherokee County,” Jim said. “One friend in particular. And he usually pays this friend a visit the minute he gets home. That’s probably where he is right now.”

“Is this friend a woman?” Laura asked, her voice a mere whisper.

“Of course not,” Reba said. “It’s just an old high school buddy. The boys played football together.”

Grunting with disgust, Jim rolled his eyes heavenward. Let Reba lie for the boy; he wouldn’t. “You ladies stay up as long as you’d like. I’m going to bed.”

“Jim, please, phone Jamie’s friend and make sure he’s there and safe.” Reba looked at him pleadingly. “He could have had a wreck or—”

“You two go on up and get ready for bed,” Jim said. “I’ll call Jaz—Jay and see if Jamie’s there.”

“Come along, dear.” Reba stood and waited for Laura to rise to her feet, then she laced her arm through the younger woman’s and led her out of the living room, into the foyer, and toward the grand staircase.

After the ladies made it to the landing, Jim meandered into his study. Switching on the banker’s lamp atop his massive oak desk, he sat down in the leather swivel chair and flipped through his Rolodex. He had promised himself the last time Jamie came home after one of his long absences that he wouldn’t keep tabs on the boy. He’d done everything he could to rein the boy in, to make a man of him, and all to no avail. As much as Jim hated to admit it, Jamie was a total failure as a human being. He blamed himself and Reba. They had spoiled him rotten. Given him anything and everything he’d ever wanted. But nothing had been enough; nothing made him happy for very long.

The only thing he’d ever wanted that they hadn’t allowed him to have was a life with Jazzy Talbot. At twenty he’d wanted to marry the girl, but Reba’d had one conniption after another just at the thought.

“She’s nothing but a little white-trash whore,” Reba had said. “And that aunt of hers is as crazy as a Betsy-bug.”

Jim didn’t kid himself into thinking that if they’d let Jamie marry Jazzy, things might have turned out differently. The marriage wouldn’t have lasted. Nothing was permanent in Jamie’s life. He wanted variety, excitement, and challenges. But most of all he wanted what he couldn’t have. That’s why he still wanted Jazzy so damn much. He’d put that poor gal through hell more than once.

Jim lifted the receiver from the phone on his desk, dialed the number, and waited.

She answered on the fifth ring, her voice groggy with sleep. “Yeah?”

“Jazzy, this is Jim Upton.”

“What do you want?”

“Reba’s concerned because Jamie left his welcome-home party and hasn’t returned. By any chance is he there with you?”

Jazzy laughed. “I assume the new fiancée is not in the room with you.”

“No, she and Reba have retired for the night.”

“Jamie’s not here.”

“Do you have any idea where he is?”

“I might.”

“Would you mind telling me?”

Jazzy sighed. “He came by to see me at Jazzy’s Joint. We talked. I told him to get lost. And Jamie being Jamie, he didn’t take it well, so he latched on to the nearest woman he could find to make me jealous.”

“He picked up someone in the bar?”

“That’s right.”

“Do you know—”

“I think her name was April or Amber. She’s been in a few times, but I don’t know her personally. I’d say he’s probably with her.”

“Thank you, Jazzy. And … I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for waking me?”

“Yes, that, too, but mostly sorry that Jamie never had the backbone to stand up to his grandmother and marry you despite her protests.”

Jazzy was silent for several minutes. “Tell that new fiancée of his to run as far and as fast as she can.”

The dial tone buzzed in Big Jim Upton’s ear.

Jacob had sacked out on the cot in his office at the courthouse instead of going home. After tossing and turning for nearly an hour, he’d finally fallen asleep sometime after midnight. When the ruckus outside his office door woke him, he punched the button on his digital watch to light the face. Four-twelve.

“I want to see Jacob right now!” a man’s voice shouted.

“But he’s sleeping,” Deputy Tewanda Hardy informed the irate man. “He’s worn to a frazzle.”

“Dammit, woman, get out of my way. I need to talk to Jacob.”

Jacob lifted himself into a sitting position on the edge of the cot, ran his hand over his face, yawned heavily, and rose to his feet. He’d recognized the man’s voice. Mayor Jerry Lee Todd. What the hell had put Jerry Lee into such a panic?

By the time Jacob took a couple of steps, the office door swung open and Jerry Lee stormed into the room, Tewanda hot on his heels.

“Sorry, Jacob,” Tewanda said, “but the mayor insisted on seeing you immediately.”

“It’s all right,” he told his deputy. Tewanda was his only female deputy and one of the best, if not the best, he had. She was taking courses at UTC in Knoxville to get her degree, so he arranged her schedule so she could work nights. Her dream was to become a lawyer, and Jacob had no doubt she’d make a good one. Already she knew as much about the law as he did. Maybe more.

“You’ve got to help me,” Jerry Lee said.

“What’s wrong?” When Tewanda flipped on the overhead light in Jacob’s office, he took a good look at the mayor. The guy looked like death warmed over. Drenched to the skin, his face red from exposure to the frigid temperatures and his hair plastered to his balding head, he was a sorry sight, downright pathetic. Jacob glanced past Jerry Lee to Tewanda, who lifted her hand to her lips repeatedly in a gesture that told him she believed the mayor was drunk.

“Have you been drinking?” Jacob asked.

“Yes, I’ve been drinking,” he replied. “I was out at Big Jim’s for a welcome-home party for Jamie tonight and I had a couple of glasses of champagne. And then I had a few sips of Scotch at the house, to warm myself up. But I’m not drunk.” He whirled around and glared at Tewanda. “I’m upset, dammit, not drunk.”

“Whatever you say, Mayor Todd.” Tewanda rolled her eyes toward the ceiling.

“Would you mind leaving us? I need to speak to Jacob alone,” Jerry Lee said.

Without another word, Tewanda turned and exited the office, but she left the door open. Jerry Lee kicked the door closed behind her.

“Women shouldn’t be deputies,” Jerry Lee said.

“Want to tell me what’s going on?” Jacob crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s four o’clock in the morning. What couldn’t wait until a decent hour?”

“Cindy’s missing.”

“What?”

Jerry Lee rubbed his closed eyelids with his fingertips. “She left the party early. Caught a ride with the new doctor and his wife.” He opened his eyes and stared toward Jacob, but his gaze was unfocused as he continued explaining. “I’ve talked to them. They said they dropped her off on their way home, around nine forty-five. I got home a little after eleven and she wasn’t there.”

“Any reason why she would have left you?” Jacob asked, knowing full well that half the town had heard about Cindy and Jerry Lee’s marital brawls.

“She didn’t leave me. All her stuff is still at the house. Whenever she takes off for a few days, she always packs a couple of bags. Nothing’s missing.”

“Maybe she spent the night with a friend.” Jacob purposely didn’t mention the friend’s gender. Cindy had a reputation for sleeping around and had cheated on Jerry Lee with at least half a dozen men—maybe more—during their six-year marriage.

“She never stays out all night with any of her friends. She’s always home by this time of the morning.” Jerry Lee slumped down in one of the two chairs facing Jacob’s desk. The man aged ten years right before Jacob’s eyes. “I know what you’re thinking. You believe she’s gone off with some man, but I tell you she hasn’t.”

Jacob walked over and placed his hand on Jerry Lee’s shoulder. “How can you be so sure?”

“Her latest is that Carson guy. You know, the wannabe actor/director who’s in charge of the town’s little theater.” Jerry Lee entwined his fingers and popped his knuckles. “I called him and he wouldn’t talk to me, so I went over to his apartment. He finally admitted that she’d been there last night, but swore she’d left before eleven.”

Jacob wanted to feel sorry for Jerry Lee, but he couldn’t. He’d brought a lot of this misery on himself. He’d married the wrong woman, refused to let her go, then had taken out his misery on her and everyone else around him.

“Give me a list of her friends,” Jacob said. “Around six I’ll make a few phone calls.”

“She’s not with any of her friends. I’m telling you, she’s in trouble. I feel it”—he punched his stomach with his closed fist—“in here. We’ve got ourselves a killer running loose in Cherokee County—”

“Don’t go jumping to conclusions. Cindy’s probably just fine and she’ll show up at home in a few hours.”

“Do you really think so?”

Jacob nodded.

“I want to fill out a missing person’s report,” Jerry Lee said. “And if she doesn’t come home, I want you to—”

“If she isn’t home by noon today, call Roddy Watson. You live in town, remember? You’ll need to file a report with the Cherokee Pointe police.”

“Yes, yes. I know. It’s just I trust you to find Cindy for me. You know about our past history and all. Roddy and I play golf together, we belong to the Country Club, our mothers are bridge partners. You understand.”

Yeah, Jacob understood all too well. Jerry Lee didn’t want to involve his friend, the chief of police, a man the mayor considered his social equal. He could admit to Jacob that he’d confronted Cindy’s most recent lover, but he could never be that honest with a friend.

“Why don’t you go home, try to get some rest, and if Cindy doesn’t show up by noon, give me a call and we’ll go from there.”

With his shoulders slumped and weariness etched on his features, Jerry Lee rose from the chair, held out his hand, and said, “Thanks,” as he shook Jacob’s hand.

The minute the mayor left, Tewanda brought two cups of coffee into Jacob’s office and handed one to him. He looked up from where he sat behind his desk and smiled at her as he accepted the coffee.

“He’s a real piece of work, isn’t he?” Tewanda said.

“Why, Ms. Hardy, saying something like that makes me think you don’t like our mayor.”

“Like him?” Tewanda harrumphed. “The man’s a bigot, a wife beater and a—”

“Don’t hold back, tell me what you really think of him.”

“I hope Cindy Todd has run off with somebody and stays gone for good.”

“If she has run off with some guy, I wish she’d left Jerry Lee a note or something. As it is, he’s going to run us crazy if she doesn’t come home.” Jacob sipped on the hot coffee and sighed with pleasure when he realized it was fresh. “You made a fresh pot. Thanks.”

“As soon as Jasmine’s opens for breakfast at six, I’ll run out and get us some sausage biscuits,” Tewanda said. “Until then, I’ve got peanut butter and crackers if you want some.”

“Nah, thanks.” He held up the orange UTC mug. “This will tide me over for the time being.”

Tewanda glanced down at the photographs spread out on Jacob’s desk. Crime-scene photos of Susie Richards’s mutilated body.

“Makes me sick at my stomach just to look at those,” she said.

Jacob gathered up the photographs, slid them into a folder, and laid them aside. “We did everything we were supposed to do, but I doubt it will be enough to catch this guy. He didn’t leave us much to go on. He covered his tracks like a pro, which tells me he’s done this sort of thing before.”

Tewanda shivered. “Are you saying what I think you are?”

“Yeah. If he’s done it before, he’ll do it again. I just hope we find him before another innocent person is killed.”

After a restless night, Jazzy woke at dawn. She had slept an hour, woke, and thought about Jamie. Then she’d slept another couple of hours, woke, and thought about Jamie. The pattern had repeated itself all night—except for when Big Jim’s telephone call woke her around one-thirty.

Had she seen Jamie? Hell, yes! He’d come by Jazzy’s Joint around ten-thirty. One look at him and her stomach had tied in knots. Even now she wasn’t sure whether the reaction had been lust or fear. Perhaps both.

He’d been so damn sure of her that she’d derived a great deal of pleasure from telling him to leave her the hell alone. He had pressed her; she’d retreated.

“I’m over you,” she’d told him. “I’ve moved on. So don’t think you can walk back into my life and crawl back into my bed. Never again!”

Half the patrons in Jazzy’s Joint had heard her screaming at him. She didn’t care. The whole damn town knew their sordid history, knew she’d gotten pregnant with Jamie’s baby when she was seventeen, knew his grandmother had forbidden him to marry her. Most folks thought she’d had an abortion and she’d never told them any different. Only a handful of people knew the truth—Aunt Sally, Ludie, Genny, and Jacob. She’d miscarried at three and a half months. A part of her heart had died with that sweet little baby.

As she climbed out of bed, the chill in her bedroom encompassed her. She reached out and lifted her robe off the foot of the bed, then slipped into it as she headed for the bathroom. After relieving herself, she went to the tiny kitchen in her second-story apartment over Jasmine’s and hurriedly prepared the coffeemaker.

She glanced out the window facing the east and saw the first faint glimmer of dawn. Was Jamie asleep at home with his latest fiancée, or was he in bed with the woman named April or Amber or something that started with an A and had a cutesy sound to it? He was with one or the other, Jazzy thought. He’d made love to one of those women, held her, kissed her, and whispered sweet nothings in her ear. That woman could have been her. All she’d had to do was welcome him back into her life. He’d be with her now and every night for as long as he was in town, if only she’d said yes.

Her body ached for his.

Jazzy opened the refrigerator, took out a carton of orange juice, and drank straight out of the carton.

Was it Jamie her body ached for or was it just a man? Any man? She hadn’t been with anyone in a long time. Despite what people thought—that she was a slut—Jazzy took sex seriously. Over the years, there had been a few men other than Jamie, but not many. And she’d cared about each of them, had hoped for a future with each of them, and had been disappointed by each of them.

A part of her might always love Jamie, but she wasn’t in love with him anymore. He was poison to her. Every time he breezed into town, he came to her and renewed her hope for something real and lasting between them. But not this time. Not ever again. She’d cried her last tear over Jamie Upton!

Dallas woke instantly when he heard the woman’s screams. He shot straight up in bed. For a moment he didn’t remember where he was. You’re in Genny Madoc’s home in Tennessee, in the mountains, he reminded himself. Good God, had that been Genny screaming? He jumped out of bed, slid into the slacks he’d tossed across the cedar chest at the foot of the bed last night, and then eased his Smith & Wesson semiautomatic from his hip holster and raced out into the dark hallway.

“Genny?”

Silence.

“Genny?” he called again as he rushed toward her bedroom.

He knocked on the door. No response. He knocked again. Drudwyn growled. And then he heard a soft, weak voice.

“Help me,” she said.

He flung open the door, not knowing what to expect. A kerosene lamp’s dim glow shimmered over the room, illuminating the mantel on which it rested and casting shadows across the wooden floor and over the flowery wallpaper. Genny lay in the middle of the bed, unmoving, rigid, her gaze focused on him as he made his way to her.

Drudwyn growled when he approached the bed.

Genny closed her eyes and instantly the dog quieted. If he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn the animal had read Genny’s mind.

As he leaned over her, his gaze fixed to hers, he asked, “What’s wrong? Are you sick? Are you in pain?”

She nodded, then whispered, “Yes.”

Okay, he knew a little first aid, enough to get by in a pinch, but if there was something seriously wrong with Genny, then they were in big trouble.

“Can you tell me what’s wrong?” he asked. “And what can I do to help you?”

“Stay with me.” She glanced at the edge of the bed.

“Do you need me to help you to the bathroom?” Maybe she had a stomach virus or food poisoning.

“No, I’m not sick.” Her voice was breathless, as if she’d run a race and was now exhausted.

“Then what’s wrong?”

“Is the telephone working?” She looked at the extension on the bedside table.

Dallas lifted the receiver to his ear. Dead. “No. It’s still out.”

“Try my cell phone.”

“Where is it?”

“In the drawer in the nightstand.”

He opened the drawer, removed her small phone, and looked to her for instructions.

“Call Jacob.” She recited the number.

“Damn,” Dallas said. “Still no reception.”

Tears flooded Genny’s eyes. “It doesn’t matter. He’d be too late to save her even if we could get in touch with him.”

Dallas tossed the cell phone back into the drawer, then sat down on the bed beside Genny. “What are you talking about? Who couldn’t Jacob save?”

“The woman he’s going to kill.”

“I don’t understand—”

“I had another dream. Another vision. He’s going to kill again. He may already have sacrificed her.”

Dallas grabbed Genny and jerked her into a sitting position. With his hands clutching her slender shoulders, he glared into her mesmerizing black eyes.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I saw her on the altar. Windows with light. Colors. Stained-glass windows maybe. And the sword. He was excited. Waiting. Waiting for the right moment.”

What the hell was going on? What sort of crazy dream had Genny had? “You must have had a nightmare,” Dallas said. “With a killer on the loose, your imagination kicked into overdrive.”

“It wasn’t just a dream … it was …” her voice faded.

Suddenly Genny fainted. She fell into Dallas’s arms. Delicate. Fragile. Helpless. Dallas cursed loudly.

Chapter 5

For a split second Dallas couldn’t think straight. All he could do was react to the feeling of having this beautiful woman in his arms. Although she was small and slender, her body rounded in all the right places. At the present moment her high, full breasts were pressing into his naked chest. And her long, silky black hair draped over his shoulder. He took a deep breath, eased Genny off him, and laid her gently back on the bed.

She’d said that it wasn’t just a dream. What did that mean? Some maniac had cut a young girl wide open out in the woods in the county where Genny lived. Her cousin was the sheriff and had probably told her more than he should have about the gruesome murder. Undoubtedly she’d had the recent killing on her mind when she’d gone to bed, and her subconscious had created a hideous nightmare.

He could still hear the panicked scream that had awakened him. Genny had been terrified. But once she’d fully awakened and realized she was not only safe, but also not alone, she should have recovered quickly. She hadn’t. She’d fainted dead away, as if for some reason she was totally exhausted.

While she lay there, her eyes closed, her breathing slow and steady, he studied her face. The face of an angel. His gaze traveled downward and came to a screeching halt where her breasts rose and fell with each breath she took. Her nipples were tight, peaking against the soft cotton material of her long-sleeved pajama top.

Dallas swallowed hard. Now was not the time to get all hot and bothered over a fine piece of ass. Two seconds after the thought flashed through his mind, he grimaced. Why the hell had he done that—reduced his attraction to this woman as nothing more than lust? It had become a fatal flaw with him. Whenever he found himself more than mildly interested in a woman, he convinced himself that there was nothing emotional about it, simply normal male libido.

Genny groaned softly. Her eyelids fluttered.

Dallas caressed her cheek.

She opened her eyes and looked up at him. The fear he’d noticed only moments ago was gone, replaced by weariness.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Tired. Very tired.”

“I don’t understand. Why would a nightmare drain you this way?”

“They always leave me very weak.”

She tried to lift her hand, to reach out for him. When he realized how difficult the effort was for her, he grabbed her hand in his and held it against his chest.

He still didn’t understand. It had to be highly unusual for a nightmare to devastate a person the way it had Genny.

“What can I do to help you?”

“Stay with me. Please. Until I recover.”

“This has happened to you before?”

She nodded. “Many times.”

“How long will it—”

“Several hours.”

“Rest. I’ll stay right here.”

“Dallas?”

“Yes?”

“From time to time, try the phones. Jacob needs to know.”

“About your dream?”

She nodded. “About the second sacrifice.”

Again, the blood ran cold through Dallas’s veins. Damn! Half a dozen wild thoughts went through his head. The second sacrifice … the second sacrifice.

“Genny?”

When she didn’t respond, he glanced down at her and realized she had fallen asleep. He lowered her arm down beside her, then eased off the bed and paced around the bedroom. Drudwyn’s keen eyes followed his every move.

“What’s going on with her, boy?” he asked the dog.

Drudwyn rose, came forward, and halted at Dallas’s side. Two concerned gazes met, locked, and exchanged an odd sense of understanding. Both would protect Genevieve Madoc to the death.

“Hell,” Dallas cursed under his breath. Protect this woman to the death? Where had that thought come from? What was wrong with him? He barely knew her, had met her only hours ago.

Dallas shoved back the lace curtains at the long, narrow windows and gazed outside at the dawn light creeping up and across the horizon, spreading a pale pink glow over the dark gray sky. The snowstorm must have ended sometime during the night, but as best he could make out in the semi-darkness, a blanket of white covered everything in sight.

Letting the curtain fall back into place, Dallas closed his eyes and tried to think straight. He had allowed this situation—being marooned for a night with a good-looking woman who somehow had very quickly put the hoodoo on him—to muddle his thought processes. If he didn’t know better, he’d think Genny was a witch who had cast a spell over him.

Dallas chuckled. Yeah, sure. A witch? He didn’t believe in anything he couldn’t experience with his five senses. If he couldn’t see it, hear it, touch it, taste it, or feel it, then it didn’t exist. In the real world in which he lived, there were no witches, no faith healers, no ghosts, no psychics, no guardian angels. That sort of stuff was for saps, for the poor misguided souls who couldn’t cope with reality.

He glanced around the room. Feminine, but not frilly. Antique furniture. Lace curtains. Pale pastel colors blended with white. When he spied a large, comfortable-looking chair in the corner, he went over and sat, then lifted his big feet onto the round ottoman. A chill rippled through him, reminding him he was bare from the waist up. He dragged the white crocheted afghan off the back of the chair and wrapped it around him.

As soon as the phones were working, he’d put in a call to a wrecker service and get his rental car hauled out of the ditch, then he’d thank Genny for her hospitality and get the hell out of here as fast as he could. His business was with Sheriff Butler, not Butler’s bewitching cousin.

He needed to make a definite connection between Susie Richards’s murder and Brooke’s murder. Over the past eight months, since his young niece had been brutally killed, he had spent every minute he wasn’t working to try to unearth any evidence that might point to her killer. Sacrificial killing was not unheard of; in fact there had been more in the United States than Dallas had suspected. Many had been connected to some sort of pagan devil worship, but certainly not all. Over the past eight years there had been twenty-four unsolved cases involving murders that were very similar to Brooke’s. And the oddest thing about twenty of these murders was that they appeared to have taken place in sets of five.

With Teri’s and Linc’s assistance these past few months, Dallas had put together a startling hypothesis: someone sacrificed five women living in the same area over a period that averaged between three to six weeks, then disappeared only to show up in another region a year or two later and repeat the same scenario. All these facts had come together only a couple of weeks ago, and Dallas hadn’t had the chance to personally travel to each area and go over all the evidence.

But if his supposition was correct, and if Susie Richards was the first victim, then that meant four women in Cherokee County were in danger. And it also meant that Brooke’s murderer was here.

Deputy Bobby Joe Harte knocked on Jacob’s office door, then poked his head in and said, “Chief Watson just called. He said for you to meet him over at the Congregational Church ASAP. They got a dead body in the church and it looks like the same MO as the Susie Richards’ case.”

“What?”

“That’s all he said. Just told me to tell you to get your ass over there pronto.”

“Damn! What’s going on around here? We haven’t had a murder in Cherokee Pointe in years and now we have two in the county in forty-eight hours.”

Jacob strapped on his hip holster, put on his leather jacket, and yanked his Stetson off the hook by the door, then headed through the outer office. Once outside, he moved carefully over the icy sidewalk until he reached his truck. His booted feet made large, deep impressions in the snow piled up along the edge of the street. He unlocked his black Dodge Ram, climbed inside and started the engine. While sitting there, letting the engine idle and warm, he allowed his mind to wander, allowed himself to question his decision to run for sheriff this past year.

He’d been born and raised in Cherokee County, a poor boy, a quarter-breed, a young hellion who’d joined the navy at eighteen. Ten months ago, when he’d left the service, put his years as a SEAL behind him and come home, he’d been hailed as a hero. When Farlan MacKinnon had approached him about running for sheriff, he hadn’t seriously considered the offer of his backing. But Farlan had been insistent. And what Farlan wanted, he usually got. One of the two richest men in the county, and the most influential man in his political party, Farlan had promised Jacob that if he ran for office, he’d win. The old man had been right. Now Jacob wondered why the hell he’d let Farlan and his cohorts talk him into this job.

A horn honking behind him brought Jacob back to the present moment. He glanced through his partially defrosted back window and saw Royce Pierpont, in his silver Lexus sedan, throw up a hand and wave at him. Jacob returned the wave. Why was Royce bothering to open up his antique shop today? Jacob wondered. There wouldn’t be any tourists in town with weather like this, and probably not many locals either.

Jacob shifted the gear into reverse, backed up, and headed down the street, going slow and easy over the thin sheet of ice still clinging to the asphalt.

A large brick structure that had been built in the early twentieth century and modernized from time to time, the Congregational Church was on the corner of Monroe and Highland. Jacob parked his truck, got out, and headed up the sidewalk. Policemen swarmed like bees inside and out. Looked like the entire Cherokee Pointe police department was here.

Chief Watson met Jacob in the vestibule the minute he entered the building. “Glad you’re here,” he said. “It’s a bloody mess in there.”

“Bobby Joe said you mentioned that this murder was similar to Susie Richards’—”

“Another sacrificial killing,” Watson said. “I saw the pictures of Susie Richards your department took, but I’m telling you that unless you see it for real, you can’t imagine how bad it is.”

“Mind if I take a look?” Jacob steeled himself to view another horrific crime scene.

Chief Watson led Jacob into the sanctuary. Morning sunlight flooded through the stained-glass windows, casting bright rainbows over the wooden pews with their red velvet seats.

“She’s up here, on the altar,” Watson said.

“Hmm.”

Several members of the forensic crew busied themselves gathering evidence. Jacob moved closer, took a quick look, and glanced away.

“Cindy Todd.”

The mayor’s wife lay naked atop the altar, her calves and feet hanging off the end, a gaping wound from breasts to pubic area glistening with blood and exposed entrails.

“It’s enough to turn a man’s stomach,” Watson said, his face pale and sweaty.

“Has anyone contacted Jerry Lee?” Jacob asked.

“I called him right before I called you. Told him to come down to the police department, but I didn’t give him any specifics. Just told him it was important.”

“He came by my office early this morning looking for her.”

“You don’t reckon Jerry Lee could have—”

“Not his style,” Jacob said. “He’d have either shot her or beat the hell out of her. Besides, this has all the earmarks of being identical to Susie Richards’ murder.”

“You think we got ourselves a serial killer here in Cherokee Pointe?”

Jacob shook his head. “Too soon to make that kind of judgment. Could be some sort of cult thing.”

“You mean one of them devil-worshiping cults?”

“Just a possibility.” Jacob glanced around and quickly spotted the church’s new minister and his wife huddled together toward the back of the sanctuary, a police officer speaking to them. “Who found the body?”

“Reverend Stowe,” Watson said. “The guy’s pretty shook up, but then who wouldn’t be?”

“What’s his wife doing here?”

“After he called us from his office down the hall there”—Watson indicated the location of the office with a nod of his head—“he went back home and waited for us. He and Mrs. Stowe came back over here together.”

Jacob studied the Stowes for a moment before turning his attention to the chief. “I think we probably need some help. Neither your department nor mine is equipped to handle this sort of crime, especially not now that there have been two identical murders.”

“Don’t go putting us down,” Watson said. “I’ve got no intention of calling in outside help. Not yet.”

“Do you think your department can handle this case if it turns out we’re dealing with a serial killer?”

“Hellfire, Jacob, I thought you said it was probably a devil-worshiping cult.”

“I don’t know for sure. And that’s the problem. I’m new at this job, and my experience in matters like this is nil. The resources of the Cherokee County Sheriff’s Department is limited. And I’m not too proud to ask for help when I need it.”

“Then, boy, you go ahead and call for help. I don’t need any. I’ve been police chief for fifteen years. I know my way around a murder investigation.”

Jacob knew better than to argue with Roddy Watson, the stubborn, narrow-minded, ignorant son of a bitch. “Whatever you say.”

Just as Jacob turned to leave, Jerry Lee Todd came storming into the church. When several policemen tried to stop him, he shoved them aside and when they moved to over-power him, Chief Watson motioned for them to leave the mayor alone. Jerry Lee ran toward the altar.

“Hold up there,” Watson called. “You don’t want to do this.”

“Is it her?” Jerry Lee asked. “Is it my Cindy?”

“Yeah, it’s Cindy,” Watson replied. “Believe me, Jerry Lee, you do not want to—”

“What happened? Is she really dead?” Jerry Lee barreled past the forensic team, taking no heed of their requests for him not to disturb the scene.

Jerry Lee skidded to a halt when he saw his wife’s mutilated body. “Cindy! Oh, God, Cindy!”

“Hell,” Watson murmured.

Jacob rushed forward and grabbed Jerry Lee’s shoulder, stopping him from getting any closer to Cindy’s body. Jerry Lee spun around, grief and fury in his eyes. “Let me go, damn you. I’ve got to see her, talk to her, touch her.”

“No,” Jacob said. “What you’ve got to do is let the police do their job so they can find the person responsible.”

“You can’t stop me. That’s my wife.” Jerry Lee jerked away from Jacob. “I have every right to—”

Jacob drew back his fist and clipped Jerry Lee on the temple. The mayor dropped like dead weight tossed into the river. Turning to Chief Watson, Jacob said, “Get a couple of your boys to take him home and stay with him until he calms down.”

“He’s going to be mad as hell when he comes to,” Watson said. “But you did what you had to do.”

Jacob nodded. “You know where to reach me if you need me.”

He left the murder scene, left behind the cocky, stupid police chief, and took a lot of unanswered questions with him.

Esther Stowe held her husband’s hands tightly in hers as they stood at the back of the sanctuary. They had answered questions repeatedly for the past hour and still they weren’t allowed to leave. They’d been told the chief would want to verify a few things. Esther wasn’t sure how much longer Haden could hold himself together. Her husband wasn’t emotionally strong. If not for her strength, he wouldn’t be the man he was today.

Sometimes she regretted having married such a weakling and longed for a man who was her equal. No one would ever guess, seeing Haden and her together, that she was the dominant partner. To the world they presented a rather amusing facade, the old-fashioned married couple, with the husband as head of the household. Haden Stowe didn’t have the balls to be the man of the house, but it served her purpose to allow him to playact the part.

Haden whispered, “What if they find—”

“They won’t!”

“But what if—”

“Shut up. There’s no way they’ll find it. It’s not here in the church. It’s in our house, and there’s no reason for them to search our house.”

“How could this have happened? Why here? Why in my church?” He looked at her accusingly. “You didn’t—”

“Don’t be absurd. Of course I didn’t.”

“But she was sacrificed, just like the other one.”

“We were not involved with either. You know that.”

Haden nodded.

Esther kept her gaze fixed on the sheriff as he left the building. Chief Watson she could handle. The man was an idiot. But Jacob Butler was another matter. The sheriff could prove dangerous to her. He needed to be watched. Watched closely.

Chapter 6

Genny woke slowly, languidly, feeling safe and secure. Several moments passed before she remembered what had happened. When she did remember, a deep, profound sadness overwhelmed her. She’d had another vision. One yesterday around dawn and then a second one this morning at daybreak. Both times she had sensed what the killer was going to do. Yesterday she’d actually witnessed his crime. Today she had seen only the woman’s body lying on the altar and felt the man’s anticipation. Oh, God, the poor woman was probably already dead by now. Genny had received a forewarning this time, but it had come to her far too late to help save this second victim.

Morning sunshine brightened the bedroom, telling Genny she had slept for hours. Glancing around the room, she caught sight of Dallas Sloan asleep in the corner chair, Drudwyn curled on the rug beside him. Odd how her wildly protective dog had accepted this man, as if he, too, sensed a trustworthiness in Dallas. When she rose from the bed and dropped her bare feet to the floor, Drudwyn lifted his head and stared at her. She placed a finger to her lips. Drudwyn rumbled an aborted yowl. Dallas’s eyelids flew open and his gaze connected with Genny’s.

“Good morning,” she said as she reached down for her robe at the foot of the bed.

As Dallas sat up straight, the white cotton afghan slipped off his shoulders and down to his waist, revealing his muscular chest.

“Are you all right now?” he asked.

She nodded, belting the long pink chenille robe and tightening the sash around her waist.

After tossing the afghan aside, Dallas stood and stretched. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I must have been beat.”

“Then you haven’t checked the phones, have you?”

He shook his head. “Afraid not.”

Genny lifted the receiver from the telephone base on her nightstand and placed it to her ear. “Still no dial tone.” She walked over to the window, pulled back the curtain and secured it on a clip behind the window frame. After glancing out, she said, “It’s a beautiful day. The sun might melt away some of the snow. We should be able to get into town this afternoon, if the snowplows make it up this far.”

Without waiting for a comment from Dallas, she motioned to Drudwyn. “Time to go out, boy.” Her gaze fell on Dallas. “How do pancakes with maple syrup for breakfast sound to you?”

“Delicious,” he replied. “But please don’t go to any trouble for me. I usually just grab a quick cup of coffee before I head out in the morning.”

“Why don’t you take a shower while I let Drudwyn out and start breakfast? I have a gas hot-water heater, so even with the electricity out, you’ll have plenty of hot water.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“I’m sorry I don’t have anything for you to change into, but I don’t think anything of mine would work, and when Jacob moved into town last year, he didn’t leave any of his clothes behind.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“All right. When you finish your shower, you’ll find me in the kitchen.”

Although a powerful magnetism drew her to Dallas, she forcefully pulled herself away from him. As she went through the house toward the kitchen, Drudwyn at her heels, she thought about the peculiar feelings Dallas Sloan evoked in her. From the first moment she opened the door to him last night, she’d known he was destined to become important to her. As a friend? As a lover? Or simply as an instrument of change in her life? She wasn’t sure. She knew only that her fate was intertwined with the big, blond stranger’s.

When she opened the back door, Drudwyn bounded onto the porch and out into the snow. Shivering, she closed the door quickly. Two sets of high double windows on the outside walls let light flood into the kitchen. Genny flipped the switch to check for electricity. Just as she had suspected, the power was still out. She set about preparing the coffee in an old metal pot, then placed it atop the gas cookstove. While the coffee brewed, she prepared the batter for their pancakes. As she kept herself occupied, she tried not to think about this morning’s vision, but her mind kept replaying the scene over and over in her mind.

Another young woman dead. She’d been able to tell that the woman was fairly young because her breasts had been firm, her body supple. Who had been killed this time? And where? The first victim had been slaughtered on a makeshift altar in the woods. But this time the altar had been more elaborate, similar to ones used in churches.

Oh, God! Multicolored light. Stained glass. A decoratively carved altar. Had he murdered this woman in a church? In a church in Cherokee Pointe?

Genny’s hands trembled. A fresh egg fell from her fingers to the floor and splattered its sticky contents across the wide planks. She hurried to clean up the mess and get on with preparing the pancakes. There was absolutely nothing she could do for the second victim, just as there had been nothing she could do for Susie Richards. Why, Lord? Why give me this incredible gift and not allow it to be used to save lives?

Fifteen minutes later, Dallas joined her at the kitchen table. His thick, unruly hair was still damp, and a day’s growth of brown beard stubble added a rather rakish quality to his ruggedly handsome appearance. His dark slacks and white shirt were wrinkled, but his slightly disheveled appearance didn’t seem to bother him at all. And oddly enough, Genny thought it made him all the more appealing.

“Something sure smells good,” he said.

“Please, sit down. Everything is ready.”

They sat across from each other at the big, round table and ate in relative silence, occasionally exchanging glances. While she picked at her food, he ate heartily and asked for seconds.

“Would you like another cup of coffee?” she asked as she rose from her seat.

“Stay there,” he told her. “I should be waiting on you. After all, you cooked for us.”

“I have to get up anyway. Drudwyn and the others need to be fed.”

“The others?”

“The squirrels, raccoons, birds, and other wild creatures that depend on me in weather like this.”

“You must have quite a feed bill if you’re providing food for all the animals out there in those woods.”

“I have more than enough money for my needs, so I share my bounty with others.”

Dallas finished his breakfast, downed his fourth cup of coffee, then gathered up their dishes and placed them in the sink. He glanced out the window and saw Drudwyn racing around in the snow, playful and exuberant despite the desperate cold. Then he caught a glimpse of Genny. She wore a heavy, black wool coat over her pajamas and robe, thick rubber boots on her feet, and a black knit cap pulled down over her ears. She stood in the middle of the backyard and was surrounded by a variety of animals. Squirrels. Raccoons. Possums. A couple of foxes. A deer. A silver-gray wolf. And birds perched on her shoulder and outstretched arm.

Dallas blinked to clear his vision, thinking he had imagined the scene before him. Not his imagination. It was real. Genny Madoc had charmed the wild animals in the forest. They came to her like babes to their mother. He’d never seen anything like it. And although he was seeing it now with his own two eyes, he found it incomprehensible.

An odd feeling hit him in the pit of his stomach. He’d humorously considered her a witch who had cast a spell over him last night. Seeing her now, in this setting, with a host of spellbound animals circling her, Dallas didn’t find the thought of Genny possessing some sort of unearthly power quite as amusing.

Get a grip, Sloan, he told himself. Genny isn’t a witch, because there is no such thing as witches. She hasn’t cast a spell over you or those animals. You find her sexually appealing. And as for the animals—she’s probably been feeding them for years. Yeah, that was it. Those explanations made sense to him. They were logical.

Suddenly the birds flew away and the animals scattered. Genny turned her head and looked toward the front of the house. That’s when Dallas heard the drone of motors in the distance.

Genny came running into the house, stripping off her coat and hat as she flew into the kitchen. “The snowplows are coming up the mountain,” she said breathlessly. “We’ll be able to get into town soon.”

“We?” Dallas asked.

“Your car is still in the ditch, so we’ll take mine. We can send a wrecker back for yours. We both want to see Jacob as soon as possible, don’t we?”

“Why do you want to see—”

“To tell him about the second victim,” she replied. “But it’s possible he already knows. I feel fairly certain she was killed in a church, probably one of the fancier churches in town. None of the country churches have stained-glass windows.”

“What are you talking about? You’re actually going to bother the sheriff with that crazy dream you had? You don’t honestly think it was real, that what you dreamed really happened.”

Genny stared at him quizzically, as if he’d spoken to her in an alien language. “You don’t understand, do you? No, of course not.” She tossed her coat and hat on the table, then kicked off her boots. “I’ll freshen up and get dressed. We should be able to head down to Cherokee Pointe very soon.”

As she raced past him, Dallas reached out and grabbed her arm. She halted, glanced over her shoulder and looked directly at him, as if to ask What?

“You’re right, I don’t understand,” he said. “How about explaining it to me?”

She tugged against his grip. He released her immediately. “Everybody in these parts knows about me. My grandmother and both of her grandmothers before her were … different. And so am I. I’m able to sense things, see things, feel things that other people don’t.”

Dallas glared at her. Hell, what was she trying to tell him? Whatever it was, he already didn’t believe her.

“Before you start trying to convince me that you’re some sort of soothsayer or psychic or whatever the hell all the phonies call themselves, don’t bother,” Dallas said sternly. “If I can’t experience it through my five senses, then I don’t believe it.”

“Ah.” Her mouth formed a soft oval. Moisture glistened in her black eyes.

“Ah, what? You act like I’m the crazy one for not believing you.”

“No one knows except Jacob and my friend Jazzy—and probably Sally and Ludie—about my recent vision. If you stay in these parts for a while, you’ll meet Sally and Ludie.” Genny shook her head. “That’s neither here nor there, of course. The truth is that whether you believe me or not, it doesn’t matter. Jacob believes me. He knows.”

Genny rushed out of the kitchen, leaving Dallas with his mouth hanging open. Well, she told you, didn’t she?

After a few minutes, he followed her, not willing to leave things as they were between them. When he caught up with her in her bedroom, he walked in on her just as she jerked her pajama top over her head and threw it on the bed atop her robe. Holy shit! Hurriedly, she removed the bottoms, which left her completely naked. He stood frozen to the spot, looking at her, devouring her perfect body with his gaze, unable to move or speak.

When she tossed her pajama bottoms on the bed, she must have sensed his presence. She turned, then gasped. Her eyes rounded in surprise.

“Sorry,” he said, lying through his teeth. To his dying day, he’d never regret this moment. Genny Madoc might be a certifiable nutcase, but he didn’t care. Her beauty took his breath away.

She didn’t scream or try to cover her nakedness. She simply stood there, allowing him to drink his fill. After a couple of minutes, he realized how totally inappropriate his actions were.

“Genny … I-I’ll wait for you in the living room.” He turned and practically ran down the hall.

When he reached the living room, he pounded his fist against the wall. “Idiot!” The sight of Genny in all her naked glory flashed through his mind repeatedly. She was small and slender, delicately made. Her skin, the color of light honey, was flawless. Tiny waist. High, round breasts, peaked with dusty peach nipples. Full, tapering hips. A tight, lush butt. And a triangle of jet black hair nestled between her trim thighs.

Dallas swallowed, then cursed under his breath. He had the hard-on from hell.

Jim Upton caught his grandson trying to sneak up the back stairs. The boy had been out all night doing only God knew what. Jim hadn’t slept much, worrying about Jamie, wondering just what the hell kind of mischief he’d been up to. Some of his usual nonsense, no doubt. Screwing some two-bit floozie. Drinking himself into oblivion. Gambling away money he’d never earned. Getting into a fight and landing himself in jail or winding up in County General’s ER. Seeing Jamie all in one piece, with no black eyes or broken bones, allowed Jim some momentary relief. More than once these past few years he’d been on the verge of writing the boy off as a lost cause. But Reba would champion their only grandchild to her dying day, no matter what he did.

Jim walked across the big, modernized kitchen and stopped at the foot of the stairs. “Glad to see you finally made it home.”

Jamie stopped dead in his tracks. He squared his shoulders and turned to face his grandfather, a silly, aw-shucks grin on his handsome young face.

“Morning, Big Daddy.” Jamie made his way back down the stairs. “Looks like it’s going to be a right pretty day, despite the foot of snow we got last night.”

“Got caught in town, did you?” Jim asked.

Jamie shrugged. His cocky grin widened. “Yeah, something like that.”

“You could have called. Your grandmother was worried sick about you. And Laura was none too happy that you’d deserted her.”

“I’ll smooth things over with my ladies. Don’t worry. They’ll forgive me.”

“Reba will forgive you for anything, but I won’t. You’d better keep that in mind. Sooner or later, you’ll cross the line as far as I’m concerned.”

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