Wren Delacroix Series Box Set Page 16

  Mmm.

  Coffee.

  She could use some coffee right now. Maybe she’d get some coffee and then come back here and try to organize it a little bit, at least write the names of their suspects up on that marker board. Maybe while she did that, something would come to her. Something brilliant.

  * * *

  Kyler Morris came down the stairs, eyes flashing, cradling a rifle. “Cam, I told you not to come down into the basement. I put that damned lock on the door. Didn’t that give you a clue?” he thundered.

  Camilla cowered. “I’m sorry, Kyler, but I just wanted to prove that you were innocent.”

  Reilly was watching this, and his brain was working overtime. That hand in the freezer, it was not a little girl’s hand. He turned and looked at the finger there, and it was definitely a finger, and it was too big. Also, there were little black hairs growing above the knuckles. That finger belonged to a grown man.

  Anyway, Reilly would have known if the girls’ bodies had been frozen, and they hadn’t.

  The freezer was incidental.

  The body in the freezer was incidental too.

  But that didn’t mean that this guy wasn’t the killer, not exactly. Whatever the case, there was a dead fucking body in a freezer, and—

  Kyler stopped at the bottom of the steps and raised the barrel of his gun. “You stupid, stupid bitch.”

  Reilly reached for his own gun. He should have drawn it already, when he’d heard that door close, he should have gone for his gun. He shouldn’t have been staring at that hand in the freezer and trying to connect it to the murders, he…

  Damn it.

  “Kyler,” moaned Camilla. “What are you doing?”

  “Get out of my way,” said Kyler.

  Camilla moved, relieved. “Oh, Kyler, you can’t shoot a cop.”

  “Shut up, I can damned well—”

  “They’ll know he came here,” said Camilla. “And they’ll never let it go. If you shoot him, you’ll never get away with it.”

  “Shut up,” said Kyler. “Just shut up.” But he didn’t pull the trigger. Instead, he closed the distance between himself and Reilly. “Turn around. Put your hands behind your back.”

  Reilly hesitated, and then did what he was told.

  Kyler put the barrel of the rifle against the back of Reilly’s skull. “Don’t move.”

  “Hey,” Reilly said, finding his voice, “let’s talk about this. Maybe—”

  “Shut up,” said Kyler. He raised his voice. “Camilla, go get some rope from the pegboard.”

  “What are you going to do?” said Camilla.

  “Just do it,” Kyler snarled.

  Several seconds later, Reilly felt scratchy nylon rope biting into his skin.

  “Tighter, Camilla,” said Kyler.

  “I can’t get it tighter,” she moaned.

  “Well, I’m holding the gun, so I can’t do it!” snapped Kyler. But then, abruptly, the gun was no longer at the back of his skull, and the rope was being pulled tight and tied so that it cut off his circulation.

  Reilly gritted his teeth. He started to move, to kick, to run—

  But Kyler knocked his knees out from under him.

  Reilly went sprawling on the concrete.

  Kyler knelt over him and tied up his feet.

  “Oh, Kyler,” moaned Camilla, who was looking down into the freezer. “What is that?”

  “Shut up,” Kyler growled. He slammed the freezer closed. “Go upstairs, Camilla.”

  She moaned again, clutching both sides of her head. And then she turned and scurried up the steps as quickly as she could.

  Kyler stuck his hand into his pocket and retrieved Reilly’s phone. He stripped away his gun as well, and found his badge and wallet.

  Reilly looked up at him. “Let’s talk about what you want, Kyler, and what I can do for you.”

  “I want you to disappear,” said Kyler.

  “That’s not going to help your situation,” said Reilly. “It’s like your wife said, if anything happens to me—”

  Kyler cut him off with a kick to the jaw, his boots heavy and crusted with mud.

  Reilly’s jaw rang with the impact. He fell backwards, thudding against the concrete.

  “Shut up,” said Kyler. “Just shut up.” He took Reilly’s possessions and he went up the steps. At the top, he switched off the light, leaving Reilly alone in the dark.

  * * *

  Wren got to the coffee shop just as they were closing. She ordered a mocha and then she went back to headquarters. As she scrawled the names of the suspects on the board, she tried to think clearly about each of them.

  Isaac Scott. He didn’t quite fit her profile, but he was weird, and he was always prowling around the compound. He’d been part of the bonfires. He knew everything there was to know about initiates. He’d never been given a young girl himself. David Song hadn’t seen fit to pair him up with anyone. Maybe he’d resented that. Maybe the murders of the girls was all about that for him in some way.

  But that was reaching, and she knew it. Still, he had opportunity, and in a crime like this, motive was harder to pin down. He couldn’t be eliminated.

  Major Hill. He was obviously unstable. The way he’d come into her house that night, the night that they’d found Jenny Smith, he’d been distraught. Could arranging the body have been traumatic for him? Her newest idea was that the killer was compulsive, but wished he could control himself. It fit Major.

  But it could also fit Hawk.

  Maybe Hawk was obsessed with her. Maybe he’d fetishized her as a ten-year-old girl, and now he was symbolically killing her over and over and over again because he thought that if he killed those girls, he’d kill his desire for them, but it wasn’t working. It was only getting stronger. There was something about the idea of the night he’d had sex with her for the first time being the night he’d changed his M.O., arranging the body differently. That made a certain twisted sense.

  Fuck.

  If he was a psychopath, she would know, right?

  Right, because she’d seen it in her own mother?

  Well, that wasn’t fair. She was a little girl, and she had known that Vivian was different than other mothers. She had realized that Vivian didn’t love her in the same way her father did. And hell, her father wasn’t even her father…

  Oh, she didn’t want to think about this.

  Who was next?

  Roger Green. They didn’t know where he was. He’d left his apartment. From the looks of the place, he was still hung up on the cult. Devon had confirmed that it had marked him permanently, so deeply that she hadn’t wanted to raise a child with him. He had no alibis. He was as tied to the cult as any of the others, and he could be just as obsessed with the initiates.

  Ugh.

  This wasn’t helping. Where the hell was Reilly? Maybe if she had someone to bounce ideas off of, she’d make some progress. She called him again.

  Someone answered. But it wasn’t Reilly.

  “You, you’re the partner, aren’t you?” said the voice. “That’s why you’re calling him?”

  “Who is this?” said Wren.

  “Camilla Morris.”

  “Kyler Morris’s wife?” said Wren. “Where’s Reilly?”

  “I think he’s going to kill him,” said Camilla, almost sobbing.

  “What?” said Wren. “Where are you? Is Reilly there? Does your husband have him?”

  The line cut off.

  Wren tried to call back, but it went straight to voicemail. Camilla must have turned off the phone. Wren glared down at the phone, her hands shaking. Okay, what did she do? She needed to get someone to go after Reilly. She’d have to call the police.

  She dialed 911.

  “911, what is your emergency?” said dispatch, a male voice.

  “Listen, this is Wren Delacroix. I work with Detective Caius Reilly at the task force, and he needs backup. Now, I can give you the address—”

  “Wren Delacroix?”


  She swore under her breath. “Yes.”

  “You’re calling our department, telling us what to do? Well, isn’t that just like your uppity task force,” said the man. “And you, you’re the daughter of that bitch who—”

  “Look, can we not do this right now? Detective Reilly is in danger.”

  “Oh, sure.” He chuckled. “Tell you what? I’ll transfer you, okay?”

  “Well… I don’t even know. Can we call the department in northern Virginia? Do you guys have some kind of relationship with—”

  Hold music came up.

  “Fuck,” said Wren. She hung up the phone. She would have called Reilly’s own department, but she didn’t know the number for Lopez, his captain. She had a number for Maliah Wright, though.

  Maliah answered on the third ring. “Wren Delacroix?”

  “Yes, listen—”

  “You’re calling me?”

  “Reilly’s in danger. He needs backup. I have the address.”

  “Why are you telling me this? Call the police.”

  “I did. They hate me,” said Wren. “Can you call them? Can you get someone to call the department in northern Virginia where Kyler Morris lives and have someone get out to that place? I don’t know what’s going on, but Morris’s wife said that Morris might kill Reilly.”

  “What?” Panic in Maliah’s voice.

  “You want me to repeat that?”

  “No, okay, I got it,” said Maliah. “I just hope we can get someone there in time.”

  “I’m going out there,” said Wren.

  “You’re not an officer—”

  “I have FBI training,” said Wren. “I can damned well back him up.”

  “Okay,” said Maliah. “If you’re going, then first go into his office and use the combination to get into the locker behind his desk. There’s an extra gun there, and ammunition too. I think you might need it. But if you get in trouble for that, I did not tell you the combination was 9904. That never crossed my lips.”

  “Got it,” said Wren. “Thank you, Maliah.”

  “Get there and save him,” said Maliah and hung up.

  Wren found the gun and got in her car. She went above the speed limit the whole way there.

  She hoped that when she arrived at the place, she would find that Maliah had managed to get the police there ahead of her. She hoped to pull into a driveway full of flashing lights and armed cops going to and fro.

  But there was no one in the driveway.

  Reilly’s car was parked next to the fence.

  Otherwise, it was silent and quiet.

  Wren got out of her car, gun strapped under her jacket. She touched it, just to make sure it was solid and real and there. It had been a while since she’d shot a gun, but it felt good and familiar, like it belonged there.

  She shut the door to the car. Quietly, although she wasn’t sure why she bothered. Anyone in the house would have heard her pull up.

  She advanced to the fence.

  What the hell?

  How was she supposed to get past this fence?

  Maybe she could climb it. There was a layer of barbed wire at the top, but she thought she might be able to get around it if she tried. It couldn’t be that easy, though. Kyler was crazy paranoid. Maybe there was an alarm that would sound when she reached the top or maybe he had booby traps rigged up or something.

  She didn’t see any other options, though. If she’d had the foresight to bring out some bolt cutters, she might have been able to cut herself through, but she hadn’t been thinking that far ahead. And besides, the police would be here soon.

  She looked down the road as if she could summon them by sheer force of will. She strained to hear sirens to see the lights.

  Nothing.

  What if they weren’t coming? What if they were giving Maliah the same shit they’d given Wren?

  Should she call Maliah?

  Should she leave and go pick up some bolt cutters at the nearest Wal-mart?

  A sound from beyond the fence.

  She drew her gun, moving forward.

  Two figures melted out of the darkness. It was Kyler Morris with a rifle fitted under his wife’s chin. His eyes and nose were red. He was crying.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Camilla was crying too. She was begging him to let her go, telling him that she loved him.

  “Stop it, Camilla,” he said, his voice thick. “This is all your fault. If you’d never let that man into the house, none of this would have happened.” He raised his voice. “You! Drop your gun or I’ll blow her head off.”

  Wren debated. He was crying. He didn’t want to kill his wife. Maybe he was bluffing. Maybe if she held her ground, she could talk him down. “Look, Mr. Morris, maybe we can try to work something out. Why don’t you think about what it is you want, okay?” She’d a little bit of hostage negotiation at Quantico. It was all about staying calm and trying to make the perpetrator think he was in control.

  “I want to go back in time,” said Kyler. “Can you help me do that?”

  “I…”

  “Put down your fucking gun!” he shrieked.

  “I will,” she said, deciding to bargain a little herself. “I will, if you can tell me that Detective Reilly is okay. Can I see him, please? If I can see him, I’ll put down the gun.”

  Kyler moved his rifle and it went off.

  Camilla screamed, on the ground, writhing. Blood was pouring out of her ankle.

  “Drop the gun!” screamed Kyler.

  Wren put down the gun, and she was shaking everywhere. She’d gambled and lost here. Now that Camilla was bleeding, her life was in danger. There wasn’t really such a thing as a safe place to shoot someone. Under the right circumstances, any shot could cause someone to bleed out. She placed her weapon on the ground, raising her hands. “Okay, listen, Mr. Morris, we need to get your wife to a hospital.”

  “Please, Kyler,” said Camilla. “Please, it hurts.”

  “Shut up, Camilla, shut up,” said Kyler. “This is your fault. This is all your fault.” He was pointing the rifle at her now, and she was huddled on the ground, sobbing. “I told you to stay out of the basement. I told you.”

  “I’m sorry, baby,” said Camilla. “I’m sorry. I love you.”

  “Shut up,” said Kyler. “I mean it.” He looked up at Wren. “I didn’t want any of this to happen.”

  “I believe you,” said Wren. “Let’s talk about Detective Reilly. Did you shoot him?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know,” said Kyler. He sniffed. “This was all an accident. I got in a fight with a guy at a bar, and things got out of hand. I never meant for him to end up dead.”

  “Of course you didn’t,” said Wren in her best soothing voice, even though she had no idea what the hell he was talking about. Wasn’t Kyler the killer they were looking for? Wasn’t that what this was all about?

  “But then, I had this body,” said Kyler. “I didn’t know what to do, so I put him in the freezer in the basement, and I told Camilla I sold the freezer, and I told her never to go down there. I was going to figure out something to do with him. I really, really was. But I just… I never quite got the chance. And then that stupid detective, and now…” He broke down into sobs.

  “Mr. Morris, open the gate and let me in,” said Wren. “We’ll figure this out.”

  “You understand,” said Kyler. “You were there. I have the website about the Fellowship, but all I know is second hand. You had it right from the source.”

  “Had what?”

  “The message of the Horned Lord, of course,” said Kyler. “All praise his name.”

  Wren licked her lips.

  “He needs sacrifices sometimes,” said Kyler. He sniffed hard, swallowing his tears. “That’s why I had to kill that man, that’s why I have to do this. Sorry, baby. Sorry, Camilla. It’s not for me, I swear, it’s for him. It’s for the glory of his crimson horns.” The rifle went off again.

  Camilla’s head jerked back with the force of the
bullet hitting her. Blood burst out of a hole just above her eyebrow and she twitched and convulsed and fell lifeless to the ground.

  “No,” said Wren. She’d just lost the hostage.

  Kyler whipped up his rifle, pointing at Wren.

  But Wren ducked down on the ground, crouching, hands flat against the gravel of the driveway.

  “Don’t move!” snapped Kyler.

  Wren’s hand closed on the gun she’d brought. She snatched it up, aimed, and fired, and it was like practicing at the target range, all instinct, no thought.

  Her shot caught Kyler in the throat.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Reilly heard the first gun shot just as he was sawing through the ropes that bound his feet. His eyes had finally adjusted to the dark, and he’d been able to see a little bit, mostly from the scant light that came in through the cloudy window above. He’d managed to get himself over to the tool bench in the basement, half-scooting, half-crawling, but it hadn’t been that hard. Then he’d had to get to something that could cut the ropes.

  First, he’d tried for a box cutter, which had been hanging on the pegboard, but with his hands tied behind his back, he couldn’t reach it. He tried lying down on the ground and using his feet, but his feet hadn’t been able to get to it either.

  At that point, he’d been frustrated and rested and regrouped.

  Which was when he saw a small saw, folded up, on a shelf above.

  It took some doing, but he managed to shake the whole setup enough to get the saw to fall down. Then he had to unfold it and wedge it so that he could get the ropes over it.

  He was exhausted and sore from straining and contorting himself, but finally, he was almost free.

  And then the gunshot.

  It had come from outside the house.

  He finished freeing his feet and got up. He went up the steps, but he didn’t think he’d be able to get through. After all, there had been a padlock on this door.

  Another gunshot.

  Sure enough, at the top of the steps, the door wasn’t opening. The knob wasn’t actually locked, and he could open the door and see through a small crack between the door and the door frame. He could see where the padlock was hanging on the lock.