The Fifth Victim Part 3

"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 compet.i.tion 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. d.a.m.n, 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 h.e.l.l had this happened? n.o.body 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 c.r.a.ppy 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 d.a.m.n 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 b.u.mper, 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 s.h.i.+ning 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. d.a.m.n, but it was a steep climb. How the h.e.l.l 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 ma.s.sive 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 unb.u.t.toned 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 s.h.i.+rt, to her booted feet. She was an exotically beautiful creature, with skin the color of rich cafe 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 pa.s.ses 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 trespa.s.sing 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 d.a.m.n 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 b.u.t.ton 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. d.a.m.n. 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. h.e.l.l, 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-fas.h.i.+oned, 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 h.e.l.l 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 s.h.i.+ny 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 fifth victims combined. Just the thought of taking her, consuming her, aroused him unbearably.