CHAPTER FORTY
Hatcher glanced at Korine, well aware of the tension between them. They hadn’t spoken about what had happened between them, but they needed to.
He didn’t want to lose his job over it. Or his sanity.
And kissing her only made him want her again, which was totally insane.
Detective Brockett transported the women they’d arrested to the Savannah field office for booking, while Drummond and Watley processed the house.
He and Korine captured pictures of the interior of the house and chair setup, then he combed the rooms in hopes of finding something more concrete pointing to the women and the three murders.
The place looked as if it had been deserted for months, maybe longer. Dust and grime had collected on every surface, and the furniture smelled musty and was threadbare. The kitchen held no perishables, simply a few outdated cans of food and a bag of flour that mice had ripped into.
Drummond found a loose button in the corner of the living area not far from the chair where Bellamy had been secured.
“What can you tell about the button?” Hatcher asked.
“It looks like one from Trace’s shirt,” Drummond said. “I’ll pick up his clothes from the hospital and verify that and also dust for prints.”
Korine stepped inside from the backyard with a frown.
“Did you find something?” Hatcher asked.
She shook her head. “No, and that seems odd. We suspect that the murder weapons used on the other three victims were related to the men’s crimes—the gavel for the judge, a knife for severing Whiting’s penis, an ax or a machete for severing Hortman’s hands.” She combed the room. “The only weapon here is the gun belonging to Willis.” She rubbed her forehead in thought. “The Skull didn’t use a gun on Tinsley, did he?”
Hatcher shook his head. “He used assorted tools to torture her. Knives. A tattoo iron?”
“That’s right.” The images in the photographs of Tinsley after she’d been rescued taunted Hatcher.
“So where are those tools?” Korine asked.
“Good question.” Hatcher drummed his fingers on his thigh. The only answer that made sense was that the women had hidden them or that they were in the Tahoe.
Only the evidence team had already searched it and the cabin, and they hadn’t found anything.
Unless . . . there was someone else involved. Another woman who’d escaped, or one who hadn’t arrived yet.
One who was bringing the tools to their killing party . . .
Korine rolled her aching shoulders. It was midnight by the time she and Hatcher left the field office.
Kendall James had shown up and insisted on seeing her clients. When she emerged from the interrogation room where they’d allowed her to speak with the women individually, she looked tired, but she lifted her chin.
“My clients are innocent,” she said. “They are model citizens of society with no prior history of any crimes. In fact, they serve the community in their jobs and with very little monetary compensation.”
Korine said, “We know where they’re employed. But that doesn’t give them permission to take justice into their own hands.”
“They didn’t,” James said firmly. “I believe they’ve been set up.”
Hatcher folded his arms. “We caught them standing over their hostage with a gun.”
“You’re mistaken,” Ms. James said. “They were there to try to prevent a crime, not commit one.”
Korine’s instincts surged to life. “Really? Then they know who kidnapped him?”
Ms. James pursed her lips. “I can’t comment on that at this time. However, with your lack of evidence, I’ll have them out by noon tomorrow.” She straightened her suit jacket. “I suggest that you keep searching for this vigilante killer. My clients are guilty of nothing but being caring, responsible citizens.”
“Caring, responsible citizens report a crime and help the police,” Korine pointed out.
“Why don’t you look at where you’re getting your information?” Ms. James checked her watch. “It’s late, and we’re all tired. Excuse me.”
She pivoted, her heels clicking on the floor as she rushed toward the door.
Indecision warred in Korine’s mind. Was it possible that the four women they’d arrested were innocent? That they had been trying to save Trace Bellamy’s life?
If so, why cover for the vigilante killer?
Hatcher wanted the case tied up in a neat bow, but they needed concrete proof. Hopefully they would find it at the house on the marsh, or Bellamy would wake up and be able to identify his captor.
“I’ll call Tinsley and let her know we saved Bellamy,” Korine said.
Korine pressed Tinsley’s number, then put her on speaker. “It’s Agents Davenport and McGee. Is Agent Camden with you?”
“Yes, he stepped outside for a minute. What happened?” Tinsley asked, her tone frantic. “Did you find the man in time?”
“We did, and he’s safe,” Korine replied.
A long sigh echoed over the line. “Thank God. I . . . can’t believe this is happening. I meant for my blog to help people, not encourage more violence.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” Korine said.
“Did you make an arrest?” Tinsley asked.
“Actually, we did make arrests,” Hatcher cut in. “A counselor named Liz Roberts, parole officer Rachel Willis, guardian ad litem Laura Austin, and court reporter Beverly Grant. Do you know any of those women personally?”
A tense second crawled by. “No.”
Hatcher thought he detected a quiver in her voice. “Maybe not, but Ms. Willis had a gun, and the four of them were standing around the hostage. My guess is they got tired of trying to do good and watching the system fail.”
Another strained pause. “What’s going to happen to them?”
“We’ll see. They lawyered up,” Hatcher said.
Korine cleared her throat. “Are you all right, Tinsley? Do you want me to come over and stay with you tonight?”
“Thanks, but I’m okay,” Tinsley said. “I’m just relieved you saved that man. Please let me know what happens.”
“Of course,” Korine said. “And don’t hesitate to call if you need anything.”
Tinsley murmured thanks and ended the call.
But they all knew that she wouldn’t rest or be free until the man who’d hurt her was locked up.
At the moment, they had no clue about where he was.
Korine’s body ached from fatigue as she and Hatcher entered his cabin. The memory of what they’d been doing before the phone call teased her mind, reawakening her need.
Fool. Hatcher obviously didn’t feel the same. His gaze shot straight to the picture of his wife on the mantel.
Determined to preserve her dignity and her job, she grabbed her overnight bag. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to shower.”
His eyes darkened. “There’s a private bath for the guest room. Have at it.”
The urge to ask him to join her teetered on the edge of her tongue, but she squelched it and dashed into the extra bedroom. The furnishings were minimal, an antique rope bed covered in a dark-blue quilt, and a pine dresser.
Judging from the lack of personal or decorative touches, it was obvious a woman didn’t live here. Then again, her own place lacked decorative personal touches as well.
Remembering that four good women who claimed they were innocent were spending the night locked up raised questions in her mind.
They knew more than they were saying. If they valued their freedom, they would eventually talk.
The sound of Hatcher’s footsteps in the living room reminded her that he was only a room away. That they could finish what they’d started earlier.
That she’d wanted him after they’d parted at Quantico, and that she wanted him even more now.
Hoping a shower would cool her desire, she stripped and stepped beneath the spray of water.
But as she ran the washcloth over her bare skin, she could almost feel Hatcher’s fingers replacing the cloth, and hunger stirred full force.
Hatcher paced to the back porch, desperate to drown out the sound of Korine in that shower. But images of her naked and wet body tormented him.
He flexed his hands and gripped the deck railing, wishing he could touch her again and feel her satiny skin beneath his fingers.
The gusty wind caused the palm trees and seagrass to sway. The cloud cover added a gloomy gray to the swampland and made the water look murky, a breeding ground for mosquitos and a hiding place for the gators.
A reminder that death was a natural part of life. That he’d felt dead since he buried Felicia.
Until he’d touched Korine again.
Suddenly the need to live and feel her beneath him raged through him, and the rational voice that told him to stay where he was faded.
Dammit, he was just a man, and tonight he didn’t want to be alone. He needed Korine.
Perspiration beaded his forehead, and he strode back inside to the guest room. The bathroom door was ajar, steam oozing through the room and creating a sensual haze. He stepped inside, his hands fisting by his side.
If Korine asked him to leave, he would.
He took a deep breath, his body hardening at the sight of her naked outline through the fog. “Korine?”
A heartbeat passed. Then another.
Resigned that she didn’t want him, he turned to leave the room.
She was the smart one.
Taking her to bed once had wreaked havoc on him for months. It still was.
What would sleeping with her again do to him?