Lara opened her eyes and saw only darkness. She was cold, achy, and bound. Shit. Her head pounded and her mouth tasted cotton dry. The rag across her mouth didn’t help either. She stilled, focusing on her surroundings. Where the hell was she? She moved her head, and a sharp pain stabbed her eye.

After testing her neck, shoulders, arms, back, and legs, her condition was serious, but not life threatening. Other than her bound hands, she could move. First, she untied the disgusting cloth and spit out the nasty taste. Her wrists were tied with some kind of hard plastic that she couldn’t cut through with her teeth.

She had to escape.

Lara tried to stand. While she made it to her feet, her back remained parallel to the floor. Hands resting on her knees for support, nausea welled in her stomach.

Breathe.

Access the situation. Who else is here?

She turned her head in an attempt to identify something familiar but dizziness washed over her. Her back weakened, and she shot her hands out for balance but grabbed nothing but air, landing on her knees first and then her sore hip.

Damn. Someone must have ambushed both her and Robert. She waited for the mortician to rouse, to come to her, but no one moved, and no vibrations shook the cement floor. “Robert?”

No response.

Wait. Could he have been the one who’d stabbed her with the needle? The drugs in her system messed with her brain. Think. Robert Hoffman was a mortician turned artist who ran a wonderful funeral home. Was he the serial killer/body snatcher of Native Americans?

No logical motive surfaced. Robert Hoffman was a kind man who helped families with their grief, and his brother was the head of the forensic anthropology department. Dr. Hoffman wasn’t the killer, was he? The Hoffman’s were German yet Robert had honored Native Americans by creating the lovely tableau. Why? Her mind failed to draw any logical conclusion.

When no one said anything, she figured she was alone, and the small muscles in her shoulders relaxed. Alone meant she could find a way out without anyone stopping her—hopefully.

Battling fatigue, she pushed up to a stand once more. Head swaying, she swallowed and concentrated on her balance. Her heart pounded as she pressed her palms into her eye sockets to relieve the pain. She remembered nothing other than the cold concrete floor at the parking garage.

Bile rushed to her throat as she lost her battle with balance again. She dropped to the floor, and her knees smashed onto the hard surface. Dammit.

At least no one knew she was a real Native American, so her kidnapping had to be a mistake. Her captor wouldn’t leave her alone for long though. That meant she had to escape now.

Given there were no stars or moon above her, and the air still as death, she must be inside some kind of building—a windowless, smelly building.

She let her senses guide her. The odor was mostly familiar. Decomposition and formaldehyde mixed with… cow dung? Robert Hoffman had access to formaldehyde. Could she be in his morgue? But how or why were there animal feces?

Did it matter her location? No.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed up and at the same time rocked back. Her legs wobbled, but held this time. With concentration, she lifted herself to a near standing position. Her head pounded and she swayed.

She took a step and stopped. Her knees gave way again, and she crashed to the ground, banging her shins on the hard cement. Tears welled in her eyes. Damn drugs. She would not let this bastard best her.

As her eyes began to adjust to the darkness, she could detect slits of light sneaking in between the spacing in the wall. Were the pinpricks house lights or streetlights? They were too bright to be stars.

Wherever she was, the building had no insulation since a cool breeze was blowing inside. A barn perhaps? Or some kind of shed? Escape would be easier in a wobbly structure.

Her body shook, but she rose to her feet once more and managed to stand for a few minutes. She made sure her legs would hold her before taking a step. Without tripping this time, she inched her way to a wall. That was progress. With her hands secured together, she had to find something sharp to cut the binding. Thank God he hadn’t tied her feet together or she wouldn’t have made it this far.

Lara pushed against the wooden wall and prayed she could break down the weather beaten barrier. The worn wood bent but not enough for her to escape.

A light shone on the wall next to her. She whipped around, and then turned her head away. “Hello?”

“Well, well. I see you’re up and about. Sorry about leaving you alone, but I had to take care of some business. I hope you slept all right. The floor can be rather cold, I imagine.”

She couldn’t see with the intense light shining in her eyes. “What do you want?” If he wouldn’t tell her his name, maybe he’d tell her why he’d drugged her.

He stepped within a foot of her face. “You, my darling. I want you.”

Bernie leaned forward. “Robert Hoffman.”

Finally an answer from the little prick. “Hoffman?” He pointed a finger at Laxman. “The funeral director?”

“That’s him.”

“You better have proof.”

With tears in his eyes, Bernie Laxman told the story of murder and prejudice. He’d witnessed Robert Hoffman kill his friend over some stupid comment about Hoffman’s wax figures. Bernie explained how his friend had gone after Robert with a knife. Not wanting to be involved, he’d run for his life and was shot in the shoulder because of it.

Trevor had wanted to lecture him on leaving the scene of a crime, but Lara’s life was at stake, and he didn’t have the time to rehabilitate the guy. “I’ll see what I can do for you.”

Trevor shoved the chair back and left to find the Captain. “You listen in?”

“Hell, yeah. I’ll have two men stationed in front of Robert Hoffman’s house.”

“Lara mentioned Dr. Rolf Hoffman, her thesis professor at the University, is Robert’s brother. I’ll give him a call.”

“Good.” xxx

With his lights flashing, Trevor drove to Rolf’s house after a phone call assured Trevor the professor would be home and was willing to talk with him. He didn’t act overtly surprised Robert might have killed or abducted several people.

“He’s been unbalanced for some time,” Rolf said, easing onto a chair, still dressed in his pajamas. “He had issues with his heritage.”

“Heritage?”

“My dad’s German, but my mom was Native American. Seminole in fact.”

Trevor’s blood sizzled at the reference. The events locked into place.

“In truth,” Rolf continued, “if my brother is guilty, it might be good for you to catch him. At least he’d get the help he needs.”

Trevor swallowed hard, fear drying his mouth. “Do you have any idea where he might have taken his hostages?”

Dr. Hoffman’s mouth softened. “I wish I did.”

“Lara is missing, and I think your brother might have her.”

“Oh no.”

“Could Robert have taken her to his morgue?” Trevor asked.

“You can check, but I doubt it. It’s too public a place.”

Trevor didn’t have time for more chatter or speculation. On his way back to the station, he called his dad and told him of the new development and the possible connection to Ethan’s disappearance.

“How can I help?” His dad’s voice shook.

“Why don’t you stake out the funeral home?” How much trouble could Dad get into there? Assuming, there were no hostages. If Robert had stashed Ethan or Lara there, his father would call for back up.

“You sure?”

“Yes. We both know that if you stay at home, you’ll drive mom batty.”

“I’ll leave right now.” He sounded happier than he had since Ethan’s disappearance.

Within seconds of hanging up, his cell rang again. Trevor didn’t bother waiting for the caller ID to pop up. “Yes?”

“It’s Phil. The lab ran the baggie that contained the scalp for prints. While the scalp belongs to Julie Bowman, we couldn’t lift any prints off the bag.”

“If Bernie Laxman is being framed, this person sure is careful.”

“We also ran tests for trace elements on the torn shirt and came up with nothing other than Laxman’s epithelial tissue on the material.”

All that proved was that the shirt belonged to Bernie and he’d worn it. “Damn. And the necklace?”

“Same. The back was wiped clean, and then dragged in Ethan’s blood. No prints.”

“I don’t see Bernie going to such an extent to cover his crime, and then bring the evidence to us.”

Phil huffed. “Nobody is stupid enough to leave evidence in the trunk of his car, and then hand the keys to you.”

Trevor ran a yellow light as he hopped on the interstate. “Hoffman displayed his wax sculptures on Friday. Maybe he has a warehouse where he does his work.”

“It’s worth looking into.”

Trevor honked at a slow moving car. “Call me if Carla finds something. I’ll be at work.”

A few minutes after Trevor settled in at the station, Wolfe bulled his way around the other office desks and stopped in front of Trevor’s. “I want to get that bastard.” His lip curled. “Tell me what I can do.”

“I didn’t know you were back. You feeling okay?”

“Never better.”

Trevor dragged out the chair across from him into the aisle. “Take a seat and see what you can learn about Robert Hoffman and where my brother and Lara might be.” He tossed Wolfe a thick folder. Two heads were always better than one.

Lara awoke to find herself strapped to a chair, the wooden rungs biting into her back, and Robert Hoffman was circling her. Her vision blurred, and she shook her head to clear her sight. He stepped within inches of her feet and a strong stench of death assaulted her. He reached a hand toward her face, and she flinched.

“Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you.”

She wanted to laugh in his face but realized the consequences could be dire. “What are you going to do to me?”

Hoffman rubbed his palms together. “I have lots of plans, but first we need to talk. I want you to understand why I brought you here. Though you’ve almost been more trouble than you’re worth. I had to beg for a delay for my next showing. That man of yours wouldn’t leave your side.”

Her back nearly gave way. “What does Trevor have to do with this?” Surely, he wouldn’t go after him.

Hoffman stepped back, waved an arm, and faced her again. “In due time, I’ll tell. First, I want to show you what I’ve been working on. Given you’re a forensic anthropologist, you of all people will understand how true to life my figures are.”

She’d seen his work. The man had talent but did she really want to stroke his ego? Maybe, if it meant he’d let her go.

He pulled back a white curtain to expose another wax tableau. The figures looked similar to the ones in the museum, except the facial features on these mannequins were more defined, more realistic. His practice had paid off.

Robert tucked his hands behind his back and half smiled, obviously waiting for her reaction.

She was no fool. She’d give him what he wanted. “They’re remarkable. Better than the exhibit.” Lara squinted. “Far better, in fact.”

“I knew you’d like them.”

“The proportions are perfect.” She hadn’t planned to give such praise, but the difference between the two tableaus impressed her.

He stepped toward her, a grin plastered on his face. “Yes, yes. Perfect. That’s because they’re real. Well, so were the ones at the museum, but I’ve become better with practice. I had to figure out the temperature, the timing, and the right utensils. So much goes into making one of these pieces of art.”

“Real?” She wasn’t sure what he meant.

“Yes. Real humans dipped in hot wax to create the ideal subject. Their bodies are hidden inside.”

Buried in plain sight. She nearly vomited. She shot a look first at Robert, and then at the statues. She didn’t want to connect the dots. Chief. Indian. Oh my Lord. Could these be Trevor’s missing men?

Adrenaline surged through her, and her heart crashed inside her chest. Her fingertips tingled at the realization he’d captured her to kill her too.

Dare she let him know she knew the depths of his depravity? What did she have to lose? He’d never let her go now that he’d confessed his heinous crimes.

“Is one of them Joe Merrick or Danny Shaw?” Even with her body trembling, she kept her tone even.

“What a good guesser. I hope they don’t look too much like their real counterpart. I changed the shape of the chin, the nose and ears, just enough to disguise them. I couldn’t have one of the wives wander into the museum and faint dead away when she saw her missing husband.”

Lara studied the figures and swallowed the bile tingeing the back of her mouth. She blinked, hoping that when she looked again, the faces would change. Only they didn’t. There was no need to ask if they’d been dead before he found them.

Horrible images bombarded her as her imagination took hold. She prayed these people didn’t feel the hot wax touch their skin.

“What do you want with me?” Why did she bother to ask that question? She knew the answer. He wanted to kill her, and then display her.

He turned his back to her and walked over to an area where another sheet hung down from the ceiling. He’d mumbled, “Nothing.”

“What do you want with me?” she asked again.

He turned around, and his brows rose. “What a shame. Such a beautiful woman and you can’t hear me.”

She had heard him, but she didn’t want to let on she could hear. Lara ground her teeth, refusing to let him bait her into doing something stupid. She could play his game. “We’re all given burdens in life. I’m sure mine isn’t any worse than say, what you had to bear.” She had no idea what tortures he’d endured, but they must have scarred him, enough to be driven mad.

He returned to her and dragged a finger down her cheek. She raised her chin a notch, refusing to cower to this pathetic man.

“Such a sweet face,” he said, leaning so near she could smell his foul breath. “Yes, I did suffer.” He stepped back, obviously not willing to share his life story. “I have a surprise for you.”

He turned and sauntered over to the hanging sheet. With great fanfare, he pushed aside the cloth, and she nearly passed out.