Page 13 of Whispers at Dusk
On this flight, it was just her and Special Agent Mason Carter.
She remained curious—and a little uncertain—about her partner. He was professional and cordial. And while she had refrained from saying anything to either Adam Harrison or Jackson Crow, she was just a wee bit afraid he was going through a bit of a mental crisis. But she had seen him in action. He was an excellent marksman. Whatever he was going through, he wasn’t letting it affect his reasoning. Even though they had never worked together before, had never even met, her ploy had gone off brilliantly. She didn’t disagree—talking the man down would have been a good thing—but saving another life had been their prime objective.
They couldn’t let the “Midnight Slasher” kill again.
Of course, they’d had help in the little shack—Gideon Grimsby, pirate, revolutionary, and all-around intriguing man, even if he was a ghost.
She’d had a few interesting conversations with Gideon Grimsby, who apparently knew Mason Carter well. Gideon had assured her she’d seldom find a more professional or ethical man. And if and when it was necessary, he would have her back. She knew that; he’d read her signals clearly in the little shack. If she’d had doubts, she’d have never played it as she had.
There wasn’t aniffor them in the field; there was only awhen.
Yes. She didn’t know if she would have attempted what she had if she hadn’t heard he couldhit a fly’s eye at a thousand feet. It was a wild exaggeration for anyone, but he excelled with firearms. Experience. He’d been in the military.
Yes, of course. She believed he would always have her back.
Or...
She hoped.
No, she was certain—or else shewouldhave spoken. Cops and agents and other law enforcement often waged wars within their own minds.
And if she ever met anyone who found it easy to kill—even in self-defense—that would be when she needed to worry. Then again, there were times when a person’s crimes had been so cruel, brutal, or atrocious that when a shootout occurred, it was difficult to feel more than relief when such a heinous human being went down.
Mason Carter was seated across from her, heavily involved in reading on his tablet. She returned her own focus to the matter at hand. It was going to be important to know every little detail regarding the killer they were seeking.
The “Vampire” had begun his European killings in France, according to the briefs they had been given to read. His victim, Colleen Denton, an American tourist, had been left on the bank of the Seine, not in the water but rather displayed on her back, hair spread out around her, hands folded in prayer on her chest.
Death had been by exsanguination. Pinpricks at her throat appeared like the movie version of a vampire bite. She had displayed no defense wounds, but at autopsy it was revealed that she had been given a sedative. And there had been something odder. The “pinpricks” had been caused by human teeth.
They had DNA.
The killer had grown bolder in London, England. His victim, Isabelle Ainsley, a local girl, had been found on the banks of the Thames. Written in the dirt in the embankment had been the wordsDracula lives!Cause of death, again, exsanguination. She had also been drugged.
And in death, she’d been laid out with her hair spread around her, hands folded in prayer on her chest. The killer had somehow eluded traffic cams, security cams, and any business or personal cameras.
Both victims had last been seen at local bars. Both bars had cameras, but the girls had walked out alone beyond their range. Their cars had been found parked where they’d left them when they arrived.
Each had been gone for three days before their bodies had been discovered.
It had not been so with the killer’s third victim; she had also been left on the embankment of the Thames, but Leslie Bracken, another American tourist, had been found the morning after she disappeared. Police had searched every known business and residence for miles, seeking some help from a security camera. They had put out a call to locals and tourists alike.
Nothing.
Written in the earth by her side had been the message,They who sacrifice their blood live on forever, for life-giving red harbors and extends the beauty of the soul to the ages.
“Sick,” she murmured.
“Pardon?”
She looked over at her new partner. All in all, she decided, he was, at the least, a formidable-looking companion. She thought he was six-four or six-five, straight as a poker when he stood, leanly muscled and broad-shouldered. His hair was so dark it was almost black, and his eyes were so deep of a blue they could appear to be black as well. He was an enigma. Well, that was a given, of course—she had only met him in the little shack where he had taken down the Midnight Slasher before the man could kill again—or so much as scratch her flesh as she made her strange exchange.
Surely somewhere along the line, they would talk. Or he would talk—she felt as if she had talked a lot.
She smiled. He was staring at her and frowning. She realized she had spoken the wordsickout loud.
“The killer,” she said quietly. “I—I’m sorry. This is an organized, but sadly deranged person. Sick. I was reading what he wrote—”
“Want to know what I think?” he asked.
