Undercover Cowboy Page 19

  “This is exactly why I’d never marry an FBI man! Dad didn’t have to go, yet he went. It’s like they’re addicted to the danger.”

  Her mother lowered her eyes, and Sara Jane knew she’d hit a raw spot.

  “What’s wrong with the Bureau, anyway?” she continued. “Nick just came off a case, and he’s too exhausted to operate at his best. Besides, what possessed them to put him back on a case where he is so personally involved?”

  “Your dad told me that the killer demanded to speak to Nick and wouldn’t talk to anyone else. A woman will die tonight if he doesn’t take the call. That’s why he had to rush to San Antonio.”

  “Okay. I get why Dad had to fly him there. But why did Dad have to stay?”

  “Nick is like a son to your father. He doesn’t want him to get lured into a trap like Officer Shirl Reed. She was friends with one of the murdered women.” Mom lowered her eyes for a moment, then met Sara Jane’s gaze. “I suppose Nick told you that Officer Reed was his sister.”

  Sara Jane shot to her feet, knocking over her chair and spilling her coffee. “God, this is so crazy. Emotional involvement leads to mistakes, and Nick is as emotionally involved as he can get! How can he keep a woman alive without getting himself killed?”

  “That’s why your dad is there. To help him.”

  Yeah, right, she thought. What if they both got killed? She kept that question to herself. Her mom was already worried enough.

  Sara Jane paced. All this proved that Nick was the wrong man for her. But what was she going to do? She loved him, and the fact that they were apart didn’t stop her from worrying about him. For the rest of her life, she would wonder where he was, if he was safe. How would she live with that?

  ****

  Under harsh battery-operated fluorescent lights, the van of the San Antonio FBI field office teemed with high tech equipment and six tense men. Nick met Matt’s steady gaze. It reassured him to know that Matt would be his backup. He didn’t have to be here, and it meant a lot to Nick that he wanted to be.

  They had arrived an hour ago, and the time was dragging by. Nick had caught some shut-eye on the flight here. It wasn’t quality sleep, but he felt clear-headed and ready to deal with the devil. He paced the small area. The sicko had called five times before they arrived with threats that if Nick didn’t show up soon, he’d kill three women tonight instead of one. He had used prepaid cell phones that were untraceable.

  The bastard had training in electronics and got off on showing how clever he was. His demand to talk to Nick was part of his game—he felt, because he’d killed Nick’s sister, that Nick was the most motivated to catch him and therefore the greatest challenge. It was an ego thing. The theory fit the profile Nick had developed from past murders. It was clear from the static type of women the killer chose, that he was obsessed with killing the same woman over and over. Because of the ages of the victims, Nick discarded the idea that it might be the guy’s domineering mother. It was more likely someone else close to him, like a sister or a girlfriend. All the murdered women had had jobs of authority—not a meek, docile creature in the bunch.

  The honey signature tied the murders together, but only the killer could know exactly what the sick ritual meant. Nick had heard of a ritual in South Africa where natives poured honey over the dead bodies of unfaithful lovers to purify their souls before sending them to the next world.

  Why did the killer hate strong women so much? Had a girlfriend mocked his manhood? To shove a man over the edge and make him a serial killer, the relationship had to be long term and all consuming.

  Nick tightened his jaw. Killing Shirl must have been a real high for him—she was not only a dynamic young woman with authority, she was one of the agents after him. Nick shuddered at the memory that would never go away: honey-soaked raw skin where her beautiful face should have been. He closed his eyes a moment. He had to numb himself and concentrate on the goal—catching the bastard.

  Nick glared at the phone. Ring. Damn you.

  A piercing ring cut the tense silence of the van.

  Nick grabbed the receiver with damp palms. “Nick Reed. How can I help you?”

  “You already have.” At the sound of the electronic altered voice, Nick signaled to the radio technician put the call on speakerphone and start recording. “I know where you’ve been,” the killer continued. The FBI’s sensitive sound track picked up cows mooing restlessly in the background. “Thought you had me, didn’t you?”

  A cold chill shot through Nick. It was impossible—the guy was just baiting him. “Look, let’s not waste each other’s time. What is it you wanted to tell me?”

  “The newspapers carried a story about some murdered woman bathed in honey. I knew I didn’t do it, but it piqued my curiosity, so I took a little vacation to the gambling Mecca called Stampede Junction. Ever hear of the place?”

  Nick gripped the phone tighter. “Get to the point.”

  “That’s right. You Feds like it down and dirty. Here’s the cut version. I met an Indian whore named Babbling Brook. She seemed to know a lot about the murder. And you.”

  Nick recoiled like he’d been zapped with a hundred volts of electricity. He forced himself to breath in and out evenly. “I’m sure you didn’t call to brief me on a closed case.”

  The killer’s laugh echoed through the van. “You’re right. I wanted you off the Ryan spread when I gave you the name of my next victim.”

  Nick met Matt’s gaze. Matt mouthed that he would call Luke and stepped outside. Nick wanted to throw the phone down and get to the helicopter fast, but he waited, hoping against hope that the killer would say the name of someone he didn’t know…didn’t love. He could scarcely breathe.

  “Sara Jane,” the killer finally whispered. Then the line went dead.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sara Jane glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was after nine. Nick and her dad must have arrived in San Antonio by now. They’d probably already checked in at their headquarters. She turned off the air-conditioner and opened her bedroom window. She looked out into the darkness. Menacing shadows from the swaying branches of the old elm reminded her of the earlier break-in when Angelo or one of his men had climbed into her room. The scraping boughs clawing the side of the house could easily be someone scaling the outside wall. She imagined a dark form using suction cups to climb higher and higher toward her. She fought an urge to slam the window shut. Angelo was dead and his men were locked up. She had nothing to fear, at least about herself. But what about Nick? Had the Honey Killer contacted him? She jumped at the tapping on the door. Good grief—the last few days had really done a number on her nerves.

  “It’s me,” Alicia said.

  Sara Jane hesitated. Alicia was the last person she wanted to talk to. Still, it was best to confront the betrayal head on and clear the air. Maybe her cousin had heard from Nick. Even secondhand news was better than nothing. She swung the door open and stepped back. “Have you heard from Nick?” she blurted, detesting the giveaway fervor in her tone.

  Alicia wrinkled her brow. “Why would he call me?”

  Sara Jane put her hands on her hips and glared at her man-collecting cousin. “Don’t play games with me, Alicia. I saw you in his arms, clinging to him.”

  Alicia shook her head. “You got it all wrong, Cuz. I wish he an’ I had the hots for each other. Loving a super nice guy would be a helluva lot easier than loving a dead man.” Her voice broke and she turned away.

  Sara Jane’s mind whirled, and a stunned awareness washed over her. She gripped her cousin’s trembling shoulders and turned her around. “Lloyd?”

  Tears trickled down Alicia’s cheeks, but she thrust her chin up. “Yeah, can you beat it? And he loved me, really loved me—enough to die for me.”

  Sara Jane drew Alicia close. “Allie, sweetie, I’m sorry, so sorry.”

  Alicia’s shoulders shook and Sara Jane stroked her back the way her cousin had consoled her when her Australian shepherd pup, Lucy, had died. At
the time she believed that nothing could ever hurt more. But losing the man you loved had to be even more devastating. It would be like losing Nick.

  Losing Nick…

  A sharp pang shot through Sara Jane, and she held her cousin tighter. She didn’t let go until Alicia calmed down.

  “I didn’t come up here to drag you down, Cuz.” Alicia plunked down on the bed and drew her legs up Indian style. “I want to go to Lloyd’s funeral and I wondered if you’d go with me?”

  Sara Jane eased down beside Alicia and clasped her hands, wanting to say no. “Of course.”

  She remembered Indian Joe’s funeral and his wife’s chanting, pulling her hair, and wailing in torment. It would be almost unbearable to watch Alicia weep and suffer over a jerk like Lloyd. But Alicia needed her. Besides, he did take a bullet for her cousin and that made him at least a last-ditch hero.

  Alicia gave Sara Jane a quick hug. “Thanks, Cuz. I haven’t been able to find out the date, but Nick said he’d get it for me. I hope he doesn’t forget. He has so much on his mind.”

  “He’ll remember.” Sara Jane had no doubt about that.

  “This love thing is about more than tight jeans and hot sex, isn’t it?’

  Sara Jane laughed without humor. “You got that right. And it’s as confusing as hell.”

  It felt good to admit that. In the past, they had talked endlessly about the hunks who crossed their paths, but not what they really wanted from a man or what was in their hearts.

  “Guys throwing themselves at my feet was sorta fun,” Alicia said. “But knowing sex was all they really wanted from me didn’t make me feel good about myself. I always admired the way you handled men—holding them off, yet not turning them off.”

  Sara Jane laughed. “I envied the way you twisted every unmarried guy on the ranch around your fingers with such ease. I practiced the way you tossed your hair, your sexy sway, your twangy drawl. But I wasn’t that good at it. Somehow it didn’t fit me.”

  “I don’t think it fits me so great anymore either. Lloyd taught me that I didn’t have to try so hard to get love. With him, I could be myself.”

  It surprised Sara Jane that Lloyd had had that much depth. “Guess I misjudged him.”

  “How could you avoid it? He made a real ass of himself. But that wasn’t the real Lloyd. He’d just received final divorce papers. His wife got the house he’d built with his own hands. And she was the one in bed with her massage therapist. For a few hours, Lloyd hated everybody, himself included.” Suddenly Alicia stood. “Thanks for the shoulder, cuz.”

  Sara Jane glanced at the clock. The red numerals blinked 10:00 p.m. “It’s too late to walk home by yourself. Stay and we’ll turn this into a pajama party.” She figured that neither of them really wanted to be alone tonight.

  “Love to. But Dad and Mom are waiting downstairs. Mom told me that Dad needs to keep us all close by for a few days. We have to humor him. How about we do the PJ party thing after I”—she cleared her throat—“bury Lloyd?”

  Sara Jane fought back her own tears. “It’s a date.”

  Alicia bounded to her feet and disappeared out of the room, like she couldn’t escape fast enough.

  Sara Jane was surprised that, after only a few minutes, Alicia returned and quipped, “If you still want to have that PJ party, I’m game. Dad said we’re all staying the night.”

  “Great.” A cold unsettling feeling slid down Sara Jane’s spine. “Wait a minute. Uncle Luke likes to sleep under his own roof in his own bed. It takes something important to make him give that up, even for a night. What changed?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “Well, I have to ask him.” Sara Jane headed down the stairs, with Alicia right behind her. She heard her uncle’s voice in the kitchen.

  He, Aunt Amber, and Mom were huddled over mugs of coffee, looking grim. A gun lay in the center of the table. Tension crackled in the air.

  Sara Jane stiffened. “Did you hear from Dad?”

  A tendon in Uncle Luke’s jaw twitched. He gave her a sidelong glance. “Yep. He and Nick are on their way here.”

  She doubted that they’d had time to catch the killer. “Why? What’s wrong?”

  A sob escaped Mom’s lips. “Oh, Sara Jane. It’s happening again.”

  Sara Jane’s heart pounded. “Did De Fuego escape?”

  Mom dabbed at her eyes and shook her head. “It’s Nick’s case. Somehow the Honey Killer found out about you and Nick. We think he might already be on the ranch.”

  Sara Jane’s hands turned icy. Her heartbeat thumped against her ribs. “When I was out on the range, I had the eerie sensation of being watched. I told myself it was only a delayed reaction to the danger of the last few days, but when I heard a whinny up ahead, I hightailed it toward home. I had the same feeling upstairs a little while ago.”

  “Don’t worry, honey,” Uncle Luke drawled. “We’re here—a small army of Ryans to back you up. And I’ve stationed half a dozen vaqueros around the outside of the house. You’ll be fine.”

  “Who said I was worried? If he comes near me, it’ll be at his own risk.”

  Mom shook her head. “Just the same, I think we should all bunk in the living room together. We’ll arm ourselves and wait for your dad and Nick.”

  Sara Jane rolled her eyes. “It seems like overkill.”

  Uncle Luke shot a sharp look at her. “I think your mom is right. Remember this killer has murdered twenty-three women so far! One of them Nick’s sister, a well-trained FBI agent.”

  His last words stopped her from her usual I can take care of myself mantra. She would have be crazy not to realize that a serial killer was beyond her experience. “I know, Uncle Luke.”

  “None of your shenanigans? I have your word on that?”

  “You have my word.” And she meant it. More than her life was on the line. Her rash actions had caused those she loved a lot of stress and worry in the past—had, at times, even put them in danger. If because of her, someone was hurt or worse…She shuddered to think of it. Another loss could destroy Nick, the man driven to save everyone. And Dad would blame himself for leaving his family open to attack.

  Uncle Luke had seemed satisfied with her promise at first, but now he was eyeing her with a skeptical expression.

  “Look, I gave you my word. You have nothing to worry about. But if we’re camping out down here, I’ll just run up to my room and slip into my PJs.” She headed up the stairs before anyone could object. She really wanted to get her gun. The more armed people in the house the better.

  “Make it snappy,” Uncle Luke called after her.

  The distance down the upper hallway felt longer tonight. Her bedroom door was closed. She didn’t think she’d closed it. A dim yellow light glowed beneath it. The hair on the back of her neck prickled. She took a deep breath. Her fear was ridiculous. The vaqueros were outside watching the house. Besides, what rational lone killer would dare come into a house full of armed Texans?

  She thrust the door open and stepped into the semi-dark room. On the nightstand next to her bed, a flashlight highlighted a clear plastic cylinder of golden honey! Terror pumped through her. Before she could scream for Uncle Luke, a big, sweaty hand clamped over her mouth. Panic thrummed at her throat—she bit down hard on fat, salty fingers and kicked backwards. A man cursed and clamped a rag over her nose. She thrashed her head and held her breath, but finally she had to inhale the chloroform.

  ****

  Nick ducked under the whirring propellers and ran toward the waiting saddled horses. He mounted Jazgirl on the run and spurred her into a gallop.

  Minutes ago, when he’d called the ranch house, Luke had assured him that he’d stationed vaqueros around the villa and planned to gather the family together to camp out in the living room for the night. So why did he feel this brutal and overwhelming urgency to get there and see for himself that Sara Jane was safe?

  When he approached the villa with its lights glowing against the windows and spilling out onto the
wrap-around porch, he saw only one vaquero standing guard. Probably the others were stationed out of sight. Matt caught up with him as Nick reined Jazgirl to a stop. Together they burst into the living room. “Where is she?” Nick demanded.

  Luke laughed. “Upstairs getting her PJs and whatever other danged fool stuff women need to get ready for bed.”

  Nick looked up the staircase. “How long has she been up there?”

  “Five or ten minutes.”

  That was too long with a killer on the loose. Nick took the stairs three at a time. Her bedroom door was closed with a dim glow coming from beneath it. It didn’t feel right. If he was wrong, he’d apologize later. He charged into the room. The air was as silent as death—then he saw the bottle of honey. He raced to the open window and looked out. He didn’t see any guards.

  He ran out of the bedroom and raced down the stairway. “She’s gone!” he shouted past the constriction in his throat. “Luke, get the sheriff. Matt, notify the Bureau.”

  Luke and Matt grabbed their cell phones. Everyone followed Nick outside. He spoke to the guard who said he hadn’t seen anything unusual. They ran to find the men stationed under Sara Jane’s bedroom. Nick almost tripped over the guard who lay sprawled, face down, on the ground, his head resting in a pool of blood. Nick checked for a pulse and found none. There was a seeping wound at the back of the man’s head. The killer had used a hard object like a hammer or a big rock.

  Matt rushed ahead and found the second guard half-hidden in some bushes. He knelt on one knee. “Juan’s dead too, throat’s slashed.”

  Nick met Matt’s gaze. “The killer isn’t sticking to his MO.” To Nick’s knowledge, until now, this killer had only murdered women and had never taken his victim to another site.

  Matt’s jaw tightened. “He’s turned unpredictable.”

  “The good news is he didn’t kill her.” Nick didn’t add the word “yet.” But he knew that they both heard the word in their heads. Sara Jane fit the image of the other women the monster had killed—strong, commanding women. He wished he had told her the kind of women this compulsive nut went after. She was bound to lift that adorable chin of hers and shoot off her mouth. And that would escalate the danger.